


The King of Queens

by E_Jay



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Choo Choo all aboard the feels train, Identity Reveal, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, New York City, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Compliant, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Secret Identity, Secret Identity Fail, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2020-04-06 19:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19069135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_Jay/pseuds/E_Jay
Summary: It happens so gradually that it’s impossible to tell when it starts. His sandwich has been pre-paid. There’s a twenty-dollar bill stashed in his backpack. The elevator in his apartment is finally working.Or;Peter Parker’s identity is the worst-kept secret in Queens. Tony is only partially responsible.





	1. Sandwiches

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! This takes place after Homecoming. Infinity War & Endgame aren’t a thing, because I’m not emotionally equipped for that.

It started with a sandwich.

Mr. Delmar’s Cuban sandwich – the number five, extra pickles, squished real flat – had been a staple of Peter’s life for years. It was Ben who had introduced Peter to Mr. Delmar, back when Peter could barely see over the counter. Murph had been just a kitten then, licking his paws on top of the glass meat display. “Probably a health code violation,” Ben had said. “But who can say no to that face?”

Things were different now. Mr. Delmar had grey streaking his beard. Murph was fully grown. And Peter bought his sandwiches alone.

If anything, Peter becoming Spider-Man had increased his visits to Delmar’s. He could only go an hour or two before the tell-tale grumble of his stomach became overbearing. On one hand, it increased the amount of delicious, delicious sandwiches in his life. But on the other hand, it was getting expensive.

Peter was on his first sandwich of the day when he burst into the deli only a few minutes late for school. Not bad by his standards. “Hey Mr. Delmar, number five, with pickles-”

“And squished flat. Don’t worry, Peter, I got it.”

Peter shot him finger guns. “You’re the best.” He slipped his backpack off his shoulder and started to rummage around for his wallet. 

Mr. Delmar held up a hand. “Don’t worry about it, Peter. Someone ahead of you already paid.”

“What?” Peter held up his wallet that he’d finally unearthed. “No, no, it’s cool, I got it.” He dramatically flashed a five-dollar bill. “See? I’m rolling in it.”

He was, in fact, not rolling in it. But Mr. Delmar didn’t need to know that.

Mr. Delmar shrugged and patted Murph on the head as the cat strolled over the lottery tickets displayed on the counter. “Save the money, kid. The guy here a few minutes ago is trying to do a ‘pay it forward’ thing. Paid for the next person in line. It’s your lucky day.”

“Wow, that’s awesome.” Peter held out his bill. “But honestly, just give it to the next person. My day’s already going well, might as well pass it on. Thanks, though.”

Jake, one of Mr. Delmar’s employees, had finished grilling and wrapping the sandwich. “Hey Peter, catch!” He tossed it over the counter. Peter caught it without looking.

“Sweet, thanks Jake. See you later – bye Mr. Delmar!” He threw the sandwich in his bag, and rushed out of the deli as quickly as he’d come in. The bell above the door hadn’t stopped chiming by the time Mr. Delmar turned on Jake.

“Don’t throw things at him! You tryna make it obvious?”

“Sorry, boss. I just think it’s cool.”

* * *

Somewhat miraculously, Peter made it through the day unscathed. Flash hadn’t called him “Penis,” he’d aced his Spanish quiz, and he only thought about Liz twice. Even better, since it was a Tuesday, he’d be spending the evening in Mr. Stark’s workshop. So cool.

“Peter, big news,” Ned said from behind him. Peter shut his locker door and turned to face his friend. He didn’t have much time before getting picked up by Happy, but by the sound of Ned’s voice, it was something awesome. “You know the Lego Millennium Falcon?”

Peter gaped. “No. No way.”

“Yes way! My Mom won the silent auction! You free this weekend? You bring the Doritos, and I’ll bring the _fucking coolest thing that’s ever happened to me_. Minus, you know, you and the whole _pew pew_ thing.” He mimed the web shooters. Peter grabbed his hands and pulled them down.

“Oh my God, Ned,” Peter said. “What if someone’s looking?”

“Why would anyone be looking at us?”

“Okay, fair. Anyways, that’s not even what they sound like. More like, _thwap_.”

A spirited debate on the merits of _pew pew_ versus _thwap thwap_ started as Peter and Ned fought their way through the crowd to the school doors. Sitting at the curb was a black Audi, Happy undoubtedly waiting inside like usual.

“You’re so cool,” Ned said, staring at the gleaming tires. “Will you say hi to Tony Stark for me? Can you offer him my firstborn child?”

“You’ve promised away your firstborn child three times this week,” Peter said.

“Yeah, but like, this time I really mean it. I want to be the guy in the chair for the Avengers. They don’t really have a tech guy, you know? There’s a gap, Peter. I’m just fulfilling a need. And if my firstborn child is eternally cursed for that to happen, then so be it.”

Peter slung his backpack onto one shoulder. “Ned, you just invited me over on the weekend to build a Lego Millennium Falcon. I’m not sure if that’s really compatible with the baby-making process.”

Ned gaped. “Are you implying that Legos aren’t sexy?”

“That’s exactly what he’s implying.” MJ appeared from right behind Peter; he barely resisted the urge to jump. She placed an elbow on Peter’s shoulder, casually leaning on him. “You guys are dorks.”

“Says the girl who read every Brontë novel in a month,” Ned said, pointing at the book in MJ’s hand.

She snorted. “First of all, I’m a woman, not a girl. Second, there’s a huge difference between being a dork-” she pointed at Ned and Peter “-and being literate.” She pointed at herself.

Ned and MJ continued snarking at each other, but Peter was still caught up on MJ’s entrance. His jacked-up senses hadn’t alerted him to her presence. Was he losing his mojo? If a bad guy snuck up on him in the middle of a battle, it would be game over. 

It was a thought that seemed to percolate in the back of his head more often than usual. At first, Spider-Man seemed like the ultimate dream: a secret identity, badass powers, and a small but loyal fanbase that filmed his exploits and posted them to YouTube. But after Toomes, after the Vulture, it got…real.

After the night of homecoming, Peter worried about having nightmares. But instead, the fear came to him in the day. He would be doing something casual, something innocent, like reaching over to grab something on the floor- _He’s being crushed, he’s being drowned, his body is being torn to pieces as he falls through the air_ \- and then he would be back. Shivering and shaking and feeling like he had to brush off pieces of debris, but he would be back.

Despite it all, Peter Parker was okay. He was okay because the alternative would not be acceptable.

A loud honk from the Audi caught Peter’s attention and snapped him back to the present. “I’ve gotta go,” he said to Ned and MJ, who were still bickering. “Happy gets hangry at this time of day.”

“Give him a Snickers!” Ned said, waving at Peter as he made his way over to the car. Peter laughed as he opened the door and slid into the back seat.

“What’s so funny?” Tony Stark asked.

Peter jumped, whacking his head on the roof of the car. “Jesus!”

“That’s not my name, but I appreciate the sentiment.” Tony was casually sitting in the other passenger seat, swirling a glass containing a dark liquid. Sunglasses sat perched on his nose. “You okay kid? Sit down and buckle up. You’re stressing me out staring like that.”

“Sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, shoving his backpack between his legs as he buckled his seatbelt. “Normally it’s just Happy who picks me up.”

“He needs supervision,” Tony said. Happy snorted in the front seat.

But Peter could read between the lines. He could read it in Tony’s drink, in the darker-than-usual sunglasses, in the way he couldn’t stop shifting in his seat, like he wanted to burst out of his skin. Tony’s day had been bad.

“I mean, we always spend so much time in the workshop,” Tony said. “It’s easy to forget why do this. You know, all of it.” He gestured vaguely with his hand. “I thought we could go out this evening.”

“Like on a patrol?” Peter squeaked, his voice cracking on the last word.

“Like on a patrol,” he said, sipping his drink. “I spend too much time in Manhattan. Figure I might as well check out your scene.”

“Oh my God,” Peter said, leaning back in his seat. He looked through the window, trying to hide the excitement on his face. He’d wanted to hang out on patrol with Tony – with Iron Man! – for months. He thought back to the eight-year-old version of him, going to the Stark Expo and wearing an Iron Man mask. That kid would have lost his shit knowing that in a few years, not only would he meet Iron Man, but he would go patrolling with him. Too. Cool.

Tony glanced over at him. “Are you hyperventilating? Don’t hyperventilate.”

“Sorry, Mr. Stark. I’m just really, you know…” the sentence trailed off. “This is cool. But I’ve gotta ask, why now? There’s no villain or anything?”

“Nope,” Tony said, popping the _p_. “Just need to burn off some steam. Nick Fury is up my ass about the new Accords. I’ve got three voicemails from Captain Underpants. Pepper is telling me some new employee would give _me_ a run for my money in terms of unreliability. And there’s no more Goldfish in the Tower.” Tony finished his drink and placed the empty glass in the cup holder.

“Goldfish?” Peter asked. “Like, uh, actual fish, or-”

“You know, the snack that smiles back. Thor got me hooked on them. Ate three packages today.”

“Yikes,” Peter said softly.

“Hey Happy? Can you stop at the nearest bodega? I’m having a snack attack.” Tony turned back to Peter. “So how about we go back to the Tower, grab some pizza, and then head out for a night of stopping crime?”

He grinned. “Sounds perfect.”

* * *

Peter knew Queens. He knew the rich scents of Jackson Heights, the bright lights of Long Island City, the busy streets of Flushing. He knew the store owners, the schoolchildren, the people rattling change in coffee cups on street corners. He knew the best bodegas, the worst street meat, and where to stash an ever-increasing amount of backpacks.

His love of the neighborhood had snuck up on him. Once, not long after Ben’s death, May had suggested moving away for a fresh start. She’d suggested somewhere in Jersey City, miles away Ben’s ghost.

Peter, selfishly, had begged her to stay. 

May had wanted to leave Queen’s to escape grief; Peter had wanted to stay for the same reason. The only thing that brought him comfort was the relief of a boring routine. The planet had tilted off its axis with Ben’s death. But despite this new, incorrect version of the world, Peter still knew where to find the friendliest dogs on his commute to school. He still knew where to find the cheapest groceries and the best scrap computer parts. He still had Ned within a ten-minute subway ride.

Of course, getting bitten by a radioactive spider threw a wrench in his routine. But at least that involved cool powers.

Becoming Spider-Man changed Peter’s perspective on Queen’s quite literally. He used to be stuck looking at the ground, fighting through crowds to make it across the street without getting run over.

Now, being able to perch on top of the roof of One Court Square, he could see over the entire city. There was no denying that the best view faced west, towards the impressive Manhattan skyline. But Peter preferred to face east, watching over his neighborhood.

Peter leaned against a railing, his mask half-up as he munched his way through a shawarma wrap. Tony had gotten him hooked on the damn things. Tony in general had a very addictive personality, and he seemed hell-bent on getting Peter interested in the same things. But despite Tony’s best efforts, Peter would never truly enjoy Metallica or AC/DC. And to Peter’s utmost disappointment, Tony had rejected Rhianna.

The two of them had spent hours patrolling Queens, looking and listening for anything suspicious. In the end they’d stopped three bikes thieves and had returned a lost dog back to a very grateful owner. The criminals in Queens apparently had better things to do on a Tuesday.

They’d split up to cover more ground, but Peter had gotten hungry halfway through. One of the biggest downsides of the suit was the lack of regular, non-super pockets, but thankfully Shawarma Palace let him run a tab.

It was still early, with a cool September breeze starting to cause the flags on the roof to flap. Peter had never noticed how nice it was to watch the sunset fade into a dusk, and finally into a restful darkness. It was something he could only enjoy on the quiet nights.

A sudden noise made Peter look up sharply, but he relaxed as he saw a familiar bright speck come into view over the horizon. Moments later, Iron Man landed neatly next to Peter on the roof. The faceplate clicked upwards, revealing a glaring Tony Stark, who held out his hand. “You gonna finish that?” he asked.

“Yes,” Peter said, making aggressive eye contact as he took a bite.

“Wow, kid. I’m wounded. You’re sassy when you wear the suit.” He pointed to the wrap. “Where did you get it from?”

Peter shrugged. “The usual.”

Tony dramatically gasped. “You went to Shawarma Palace without me? This is betrayal of the highest order. Off with your head.”

Peter quickly finished in two quick bites. “Mr. Stark, I like my head where it is. But honestly, I could go for another if you’re interested. Unless something’s up? We weren’t supposed to meet up for another half an hour.”

Tony suddenly turned away from Peter and stared towards the glittering city skyline. He took a moment too long to respond. “I got a call from your aunt, she wants to talk to you. But it can wait.”

“Is it something that can’t wait, but you’re making it wait so that we can get shawarma?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, kid.”

* * *

Aliya Siddiqui had worked at Shawarma Palace for almost a decade. She’d begun as a cashier and worked her way up to manage five hapless employees who reminded her way too much of herself when she’d first started.

She’d met Tony Stark when he was fresh from the gates of Hell, drops of blood dripping from him as he and the Avengers sat at a table and stress ate their way through piles of food. Their restaurant had been the only one on the block open, and thus a tradition was born. Every Friday, an order for takeout would come from the Avengers Tower. The typical order was twenty-five shawarmas, fifteen sides of fries, and one salad. The tip was always at 100%.

But then something happened. Aliya never figured out the details, but the Avengers Tower became Stark Tower again, and there was only ever an order for four shawarmas. Over time, Aliya figured out they were for Tony Stark, Miss Potts, Colonel Rhodes, and Stark’s driver – whatever his name was.

She’d found it sad that Mr. Stark’s social life was reflected in his shawarma order. But one day, he’d ordered five for takeout. It only took him a week to bring in his new intern, one Peter Parker, into the restaurant directly.

Peter came back often, sometimes with his two friends, but usually with Mr. Stark.

And on a quiet Tuesday when a picture went viral of Iron-Man and Spider-Man eating shawarma on a fire escape in Queens, well, she wasn’t an idiot.

She was curious to know if anyone else had pieced it together. It didn’t take her long to find out. She’d asked Jake, her friend who worked at a deli, if he’d ever heard of Peter Parker.  

“Yeah, you mean Spider-Man? Good kid.”

Peter never did figure out why his food was always discounted.


	2. Bills

The next time it happened, Peter found twenty dollars tucked neatly into his backpack. It just took him a long time to discover it.

He and Tony crushed five shawarmas together, sitting on a fire escape and looking out into the night, the neon storefront lights reflecting in the windows around them.

The conversation was everything Peter could want. It ranged from string theory to the downfall of American Idol to a definitive ranking of the most iconic Vines. Tony, wiping garlic sauce from his goatee, finally looked happy. His eyes weren’t hidden behind expensive sunglasses, and the dark smudges under his eyes seemed lighter. Peter was reminded of what Ben had said about Murph the cat many years ago, many lifetimes ago. _“How can you say no to a face like that?”_  

Tony was scandalized when Peter had dropped a tomato on the fire escape and had eaten it straight away.

“Kid, that’s gross,” he said. “You’re going to get tetanus.”

Behind the mask, Peter rolled his eyes. “That’s not how you get tetanus. Besides, you’ve definitely eaten worse things. I saw you drop literally an entire hamburger on your workshop floor, and you ate it without blinking.”

Tony shook his head. He looked like he wanted to reach into Peter’s mouth and grab the offending tomato. “That’s my workshop, my germs. Every infected pigeon in the world could have shat on here. I’m not going to spend millions of dollars on your suit only to have you die of salmonella poisoning.”

“I’m not sure if you know how disease infection works, Mr. Stark.” 

They went back-and-forth, lightly ribbing, but mainly just shooting the breeze. Mr. Stark eventually checked the time on his HUD display and tutted. The Iron Man armor groaned mechanically as he stood up. “Alright kid, like I said, your aunt wants to talk. Saddle up, itsy bitsy spider.”

He’d done it before, but nothing in Peter’s life could have prepared him for the thrill of attaching a web to Iron Man and jumping off the side of the fire escape. It was the initial drop that spiked his adrenaline, that kicked his senses into overdrive.

His sheer joy was caught in his throat as he held back an excited yell. Despite the speed, he could still make out the faces of the pedestrians smiling and pointing their phones at them. He did his best to wave with his free hand.

It didn’t take long before they made it back to his neighborhood. Peter disengaged the web from Iron Man’s armor and landed briefly on the grass before he jumped onto the brick wall of his apartment. He started to scurry up to his window. He could hear Tony scoff from below. “I’ll take the front door, like a normal person,” he said.

Peter turned to quip back at Tony, but he was already heading towards the front of the apartment building. For a split second Peter thought he saw something move in a shrub down below, but he realized he was just being paranoid. Probably a squirrel.

Climbing quickly up the wall, he quietly slid the window open. Not that being sneaky had much value, these days – May knew all about his nocturnal habits. Still, he didn’t want any late-night joggers or dog-walkers to glance up and notice him.

After dropping down to the floor, he started to strip off the suit and into sweatpants. He heard the _bzzz_ of the apartment’s doorbell. “I’m buzzing you in!” May called from the other side of the door.

It was then, while Peter was putting his suit in his backpack, that he noticed the twenty-dollar bill.

A small corner was peaking out of a front pocket that he rarely used; he’d only seen the bill since part of the zipper had come undone. He unzipped the pocket fully and pulled out the bill.

He knew he hadn’t put it there and forgotten about it. It was folded too neatly and too crisply. Whenever Peter got bills as change, he stuffed them haphazardly into his wallet, next to his school ID and a crumpled movie ticket stub from _The Last Jedi_.

“Is this, like, a reverse robbery?” he mumbled out loud.

Peter stared at Andrew Jackson’s stoic green face, trying to figure out the small mystery. And then it clicked. May had mentioned that she’d bought the backpack from her favorite tiny thrift store in Elmhurst. Clearly whoever had donated the backpack had forgotten the bill in the pocket. Sweet – that was four more sandwiches.

The bill was quickly forgotten when the front door clicked open. Peter could hear May and Tony greeting each other. His enhanced senses made it possible for him to hear them as clearly as if they’d been standing in his room.

“You didn’t say anything to him?” May asked, quietly. Peter could almost see the wrinkles of concern between her eyes.

“No,” Tony said, just as quiet. A sliver of nerves lodged in Peter’s stomach. Tony Stark wasn’t a quiet person. He was all bravado, all pizzazz, all bluster. Tony Stark was the bull in the china shop, smashing everything in a ten-foot radius.

Although, Peter reminded himself, that wasn’t a fair analogy. Sure, it was how the media portrayed him. But Peter had been lucky enough to glimpse the authentic version in small moments, like when Tony brought Peter in to work on repairing the transmission in a 1965 Ferrari 275, or when Tony had sat down with Peter and helped him untangle a gnarly organic chemistry formula. 

Peter and Tony were remarkably similar. Both had lost their parents, both were brilliant, and both had interesting extra-curriculars. At the same time, they were mirror opposites. Peter hid behind Spider-Man’s mask, but he was always his true self. Meanwhile, everyone knew Tony was Iron Man, but few people could dig past Tony’s veneer of sarcasm and acerbity.

Throwing on a long-sleeve shirt, Peter opened his door to face a guilty-looking May and Tony, who were standing in the kitchen. May’s arms were crossed, and Tony’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets. The Iron Man armor stood sentinel in a corner near the TV, and Peter wished he could have seen Tony try and navigate through the door without breaking it.

“Hey Peter,” May said softly, coming over to him and kissing him on the forehead. “How was patrolling?”

“Good,” Peter mumbled. He gestured at his mentor. “Tony said you wanted to talk.”

May nodded. “Yeah.” At Peter’s worried expression she added, “Don’t worry, everything’s okay.”

A small knot untangled in his stomach. After his parents, and after Ben, he hated anything to do with having a “talk.” Then again, whatever May had to say, it couldn’t be too bad. She and Tony were standing right there. He’d seen Ned and MJ earlier in the day. His parents and Ben were gone.

Peter had no one left to lose.

May grabbed cups of orange pekoe tea she’d already prepared. She handed one to Peter and put one on the kitchen table for Tony to pick up for himself.

The three of them awkwardly sat down at the rickety kitchen table. It was still a little baffling to have _the_ Tony Stark – genius, billionaire, superhero, philanthropist – sitting at the same kitchen table where Peter ate his Cheerios in the morning.

“I feel like you have something to say,” Peter said into his tea. He swished it around a little bit, but he couldn’t bring himself to drink it, despite his upset stomach.

“Peter,” May said softly, adjusting her chair to face him directly, “I’ve received a job offer. It’s a step up.”

Peter’s eyes bugged out. “May, that’s great! Congrats. That’s so awesome. What’s the job?” Whatever it was, May deserved it. She’d spent too many years working overnights and weekends.

“It’s a hospital administration job,” May said. “There’s a pension, and great benefits, and they really focus on career progression and training.” She paused.

“There’s a catch,” Peter said, filling the silence.

May nodded. “There’s a catch. It’s in Boston.”

Peter had expected things to go into slow-motion, like the movies. He thought things would go fuzzy, or blurry, or soft focus. Instead, life remained at the same speed. The tap in the sink still leaked, and the clock on the wall still ticked away the seconds. There was no moment when everything stopped. It unfortunately went forward.

“Boston. Like, Massachusetts,” he said. He racked his head from his geography class, wondering how long a bus would take to get there.

“Like Massachusetts.” May took a deep breath. “So, I’ve spoken with Tony. You’re almost an adult, Peter, and I want to give you some options. Just know that we both love you, and we’ll support you no matter what you decide.”

Peter’s head snapped up at the word _love_. Tony was pointedly looking away.

“You can come with me to Boston,” May continued. “They have great schools there, I’ve checked. It's still a world-class city.” She paused. “Honestly, I’d love to have you with me.”

Peter looked down and realized that his fists were clenched. He focused on relaxing one finger at a time.

“Then there’s option two,” May said. “You stay in New York with Tony.”

Peter looked up. “What?”

“The Tower is pretty empty these days,” Tony said, speaking for the first time. His voice was over-casual, too pointedly light. “You could keep Pepper from murdering me, but mark my words, it’s a harder task than it seems. That woman has sharp heels.”

Peter stared at Tony, unbelieving. This was not happening. This was not real.

It was too much. The dripping kitchen sink, the ticking clock, the sickening scent of the tea, the dog barking outside, the neighbors arguing on the floor below, the refrigerator humming, the light bulb buzzing, the car honking, the shirt against his skin, the distant traffic, the lock of hair on his forehead, the leftover taste of shawarma, the picture of him and Ben on the wall – _and a building is crashing against him, and he’s being crushed, crushed, crushed, crushed-_

He put his head in his hands, trying to drown it all out. “Can I think about it?” He mumbled into his forearms.

“Of course,” May said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He had to fight from pulling away. “I have a week to get back to the hospital with my answer, so you can take some time. I just want you to know – if you choose to stay here, in New York, I’ll visit at least every other week. Okay?”

“Okay.” Peter dropped his hands and opened his eyes. Everything was too bright, like an over-saturated picture that bled colors. “I’m just going to, going to-”

He stood up, almost knocking over his tea. “I’m going to go to bed.” Without saying goodnight, he made his way back to his room, bumping into the cabinets on his way there.

He fell onto the bottom bunk and shoved his pillow over his head. He’d had these sensory spikes before, especially when he’d first become Spider-Man. Over time, he’d come up with strategies to manage them.

In his head, he pictured a car speedometer stuck at 100 miles an hour. He was racing down a long, endless highway in the desert, flashing past cacti and dust and dirt. Taking huge, giant breaths, he forced the speedometer down to 90. In his fantasy vision, he tried to slow the car down and enjoy the scenery. He’d never been outside of the northeastern states, but he did his best to imagine the sunny, open vistas of Arizona.

With more deep breaths, he forced the speedometer down. Gradually, the bedspread beneath him felt less like electricity, and more like cotton. The dog barking was less of a knife in his skull, and more of a mild annoyance.

The speedometer was down to 30 before Peter opened his eyes. The lights were off in his room, and with a grateful huff, Peter realized he had the spike under control.

That had been exhausting. He wondered if Tony had left yet. It had been rude of him to leave without saying goodbye – and the guy had offered him a room! – but staying in the kitchen hadn’t had an option.

New York. Boston. May. Tony. Did Tony even care about him? It was a big stretch to go from letting him hang out in the workshop to having him stay with him.

With a start, Peter wondered if that’s why Tony hadn’t ended up selling the Tower. When Peter had asked him about it, Tony had said, “It turns out I need to keep an eye on New York.”

But everyone knew Spider-Man was synonymous with New York.

Normally when Peter wanted to think something over, he’d throw on his suit, and swing between the skyscrapers of Manhattan. After his sensory spike, he wanted to play it safe. He didn’t want to accidentally crash into anything – he could only imagine how many hits _that_ would get on YouTube.  

He lay there for a few minutes, his thoughts a tangled mess. A few tears betrayed him, and he furiously wiped them away.

From his bedside table, his phone buzzed repeatedly. He flinched before picking it up. Skimming the messages, he responded quickly to Ned.

Uh-oh.

Pulling up Google, he did a quick search for “spider man and iron man.” The picture was the first hit: him and Tony in their suits, sitting on the fire escape and eating their shawarma. They were lit from the streetlights below, and from the light coming from nearby apartment windows. Tony’s head was thrown back in a laugh. Thankfully Peter’s own mask covered most of his face. The picture was of a noticeably good quality; probably taken by the paparazzi, rather than someone with a cellphone.

_Are Iron Man and Spider-Man Besties 4 Ever?_ The article headline read.

Peter couldn’t help the small smile that sat on his lips. He didn’t like having the moment intruded on, but at the same time, it was a nice memento.

A stray thought, unbidden, sprang to mind. _You could have more moments like that._ Peter shook his head, as if he could physically get the thoughts to fall out of his head. He had May and Thai food and learning how to dance in the living room; he had bad movie nights and late-night ice cream runs.

Then again, she said she’d visit. It wasn’t like those things would be gone forever.

His phone buzzed again.

Seconds later, his phone vibrated, with Ned’s picture lighting up the screen. For a brief, petty moment, Peter contemplated not answering. He wanted to wallow. Instead, after four rings, he reluctantly took the call. “Hey Ned.”

Ned’s too-loud voice blasted through the phone. “Peter! I’m getting bad vibes. Literally an hour ago you were chilling with Iron Man. What’s up? Is it Flash? I’m telling you, we can eliminate him-”

“Okay, but the word ‘eliminate’ is pretty sketchy.” Peter dramatically threw his bedspread to one side and rolled in. He lowered the volume on his phone so that the sound wasn’t as jarring. “Are you going to kill the guy? That’s pretty extreme.”

“I’d do it in a heartbeat.” Ned paused. “Let’s be real, I would need MJ’s help. She could make a murder look like an accident, no problem.”

Peter nodded before realizing that Ned couldn’t see him. “MJ scares me.”

“Me too. But she totally has the hots for you.”

A sharp bark of laughter escaped Peter. “MJ? Are you serious? She thinks I’m a loser.” He started to fiddle with his sleeves, thinking back to his interactions with MJ over the past few months. He had a vague recollection of her smiling at a corny joke of his last week. That was new.

“Have you seen her phone though? You’re listed as ‘Head Loser.’ You’re a step above me, I’m just listed as ‘Loser 2: Electric Boogaloo.’”

Peter couldn’t help it; he laughed again. And Ned went on and on, rambling about MJ and school and how he was cursed by the pizza gods, because yesterday he’d ordered a pepperoni pizza but somehow pineapple ended up on it, and everyone knew that pineapple on pizza was a sin against everything good on God's green earth, and he recently learned that pineapples grew in bushes, like what was that about-

“I’m glad you called,” Peter said, interrupting Ned.

“I’m glad you picked up,” Ned said, far more serious than he was a moment ago. A beat passed. “Do you want to talk about it? Whatever it is?”

“Not yet,” Peter said, back to fiddling with his sleeves. He burrowed himself further into the sheets. “It’s nice to think about something other than what’s going on. I just need to sleep on it.”

“Can you tell me tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Just don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“Peter,” Ned said, laughing. “I haven’t told anyone you’re Spider-Man, right? Nothing could top that. Nothing. Not unless you’ve suddenly been elected President. And honestly, if that happened, I would be super supportive, and I would be hella disappointed if I wasn’t your VP.”

“I wouldn’t want to live in a world where you weren’t my VP, Ned,” Peter said.

“Speaking of, have you seen Veep? You remember Seinfeld, well, it’s got Elaine-” Peter let himself relax into Ned’s rambling as he went on about the show. He pulled his covers closer and floated into the conversation, using Ned’s voice as an anchor.

Tomorrow he could face the impossible decision of deciding between May and Boston and Tony and New York. Tonight he could talk about TV and movies and the best Dorito flavors. And with his new twenty dollars, he could afford to drop by Delmar's.

The night suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

* * *

 Sarah Chan was sitting in a bush.

She couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. Sure, Rosemary had done some gardening, and had preened out some of the prickly branches so that there was a small person-shaped gap in the bush. She’d even added a small dark rug for her to sit on.

Still, it was past midnight and Sarah was sitting in a dark, cold bush. And damn it, she was proud of it.

“Nothing yet,” Sarah whispered into the mic attached to her leather jacket. “Quiet night.”

Priya, a university student studying economics at NYU like herself, was her partner for this shift. She hummed in response. In the background, Sarah could hear the radio playing classic rock. She was only mildly jealous. 

She did this once every two weeks, on her scheduled shift of Project Homebound. The whole Project had started as the Neighborhood Watch Association, back when the neighborhood still had its fair share of burglaries and car break-ins. Neighbors would keep an eye out for suspicious strangers hovering near doors or windows.

Starting over a year ago, right as the number of burglaries decreased, one of the neighbors regularly spotted Spider-Man crawling into an apartment window. It didn’t take long to realize that the window led to Peter Parker’s room, and Peter happened to be conveniently Spider-Man shaped. 

The Neighborhood Watch Association had convened an emergency meeting, and Project Homebound had begun.

Every night, a minimum of two Project members were on duty. The first member was stationed directly in City View, the apartment building across the street from Peter’s building. That person had the cozy job; from the comfort of their own apartment they would sit in front of their darkened window and would keep an eye out for anyone on the street who happened to look at Peter’s window at the wrong time. Meanwhile, a poor sucker was stuck in the “surveillance bush.” They were the boots on the ground and were responsible for approaching witnesses.

The surveillance bush name had started as a joke, but it stuck. It was more of a shrub – almost four feet tall – and was thick enough to keep the volunteer hidden.

Sarah didn’t mind doing the grunt work. Over the past few months, she’d only had to approach a few strangers who had noticed Spider-Man’s entrance into Peter’s apartment. She’d come up with an easy way to explain it.

When the witness wasn’t looking, she’d brush off the dirt from the bush and would approach the person. “Oh, you saw that?” She’d ask. “They’re hooking up. Don’t ruin the best thing Spider-Man has going on in his life. Please don’t be a dick, keep it to yourself. Got it?”

They always got it.

Even if a rumor appeared online, Project Hashtag would take care of it. After the success of Project Homebound, various separate groups had appeared over Queens. Sarah only knew of a few. Project Hashtag had a group of scary-smart computer scientists scraping the web for any hints of Peter’s identity, and if they found anything, it would be pulled within seconds. Project Whiteout systematically erased security cameras. Rumor had it that Project Death Star had an elite team of volunteers dedicated to making sure Ned Leeds didn’t blurt out Peter’s identity in a fit of excitement.

None of the Projects were officially linked to each other. Rosemary – the retired grandmother of eight that led Project Homebound – spoke of “Michael” in hushed tones. He was the only one to know about all the various Projects scattered across Queens.

Michael gave them guidance and direction, but he never made an appearance. He only spoke to Rosemary over the phone using an untraceable number.

Something Michael had advised was the money. Peter tended to leave backpacks of clothes stashed around Queens for Spidey-related emergencies, and they weren’t exactly hidden well. It wasn’t challenging for a Project Homebound member to slip in a bill last week. Michael had tactfully suggested that the money would not go unappreciated, since Spider-Man’s grocery bills had inevitably gone up lately.

Who knew when Peter would actually find it, though. The Project Homebound member had reported back saying Peter's backpack was a hot mess of empty junk food wrappers, dirty clothes, and complicated formulae written on scrap pieces of paper.

Overall, Peter kept the neighborhood safe. Sarah wanted to keep Peter safe. And if that meant occasionally donating five bucks or freezing her ass off in a stupidly-named bush, then that was fine by her.

“Peter’s oblivious,” she said into her mic. “I could be sitting on a bench and he wouldn’t notice me.”

“Of course he would notice you, you’re too pretty,” Priya said in her ear.They’d gone on a date last week, and if she kept up the cute compliments, there would probably be a second one. She couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face.

“Oh. Something’s coming.” Priya’s tone made her sit up.

A few moments later, Spider-Man and Iron Man landed only a few feet away from the surveillance bush. Somewhere in the neighborhood a dog started to bark. Sarah could feel the heat from Iron Man’s gauntlets.

Part of Sarah wanted to laugh, but the other part wanted to strangle the two of them. Iron Man and Spider-Man landing outside of Peter Parker’s apartment had the subtlety of the Kool-Aid Man crashing through a brick wall. The Avengers could take down world-ending villains, but they couldn’t keep a single identity secret between all of them.

“I’ll meet you up there,” Peter said, his voice coming from behind her. Sarah couldn’t see from her angle, but she assumed Peter had jumped up the side of his apartment.

“I’ll take the front door, like a normal person,” Tony called up. Under his breath he added, “That kid will be the death of me.” His steps faded towards the front door, and he was gone.

Sarah faced away from Peter’s apartment, towards the street. The dog was still barking. Most nights of her shifts she was faced with an empty suburban road with the occasional racoon or squirrel disturbing the peace. It was too far away from Manhattan for even the most lost tourists. Sometimes a pizza driver or a taxi carrying drunk locals rolled by.

Tonight was different. A muffled laugh caught her attention.

There, crouching behind a bus shelter down the road, were two dark-haired teenage girls. One of them had a phone pointed towards Peter's apartment.

“Priya, she has a phone!” Sarah whispered frantically into the mic, before adding the correct terminology. “Code red! Code red! I’m engaging.”

In her panic, she awkwardly tumbled out of the bush in a tangle of limbs. Thankfully Tony Stark was already safely in the apartment, and she prayed he hadn’t heard.

This was no time for delicacy. She marched straight towards the two girls, who were staring at the phone, and they didn’t notice Sarah until she was only a few feet away. She hoped she looked at least somewhat menacing, with her leather jacket and ripped jeans. “Hi ladies,” she said coldly. “It’s pretty late. Do you need help getting home?”

One of the girls slipped the phone into her jacket pocket. Her smile faded. “No. We’re waiting for the bus."

Silence. A slight breeze caught Sarah’s hair. She didn’t know the protocol for this.

She sighed; there was no point in avoiding the truth. She decided to be direct. “You need to delete what you just recorded.”

The other girl’s mouth twisted. “Would if we could. It wasn’t a recording. It was a livestream.”

_No._

Dumbstruck, Sarah stood planted on the sidewalk, trying and failing to find words. An uncontrollable shiver flowed down her spine. Her tongue was numb as she spat out, “Where was it streaming to?”

The girl shrugged. “A guy paid us a hundred bucks and told us to livestream him proof that Peter Parker and Spider-Man are the same guy. No idea what he’s doing with it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sarah said, taking a step back. Hearing it put so bluntly was a nightmare. Not only was this a nuclear disaster, but it was also completely her fault. She hadn’t noticed the girls and the phone soon enough. She wanted to vomit with shame.

“Priya,” she said into the mic, her voice shaking. “Wake up Rosemary. Tell her to call Michael. We have a huge problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to Corner Gas for their invention of the surveillance bush: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9Z33iHKvqo 
> 
> Just like our boy Peter, I’ll be going on a European vacation! I won’t be able to update for a few weeks, but I promise regular updates when I get back!
> 
> Thanks so much for the feedback, it feeds my soul <3


	3. Elevator

Peter thought he had been graced by the Elevator Gods. There was no other logical reasoning behind the miraculously-timed repair.

The apartment elevator had been broken for at least six months. That was the problem with living in a building with “character” – there was usually something catastrophically wrong that realtors glanced over with adjectives like “quirky” or “cozy”. In this case, the building manager said that the repairs were prohibitively expensive.

“It’s good exercise,” May would say, huffing her way up the stairs. “It’ll get fixed one day.”

It wasn’t a problem for Peter, who used the opportunity to occasionally drop in on neighbors as he walked up to his floor. He assumed it would get fixed once enough complaints piled in.

He was wrong. It was only fixed due to a one very specific request.

The day had started poorly. Peter had felt good during Ned’s call, but after hanging up, he’d gone back to worrying over his decision.

When it came down to it, Peter was a professional wallower. He had wound himself so tightly into his blankets that he was essentially a human burrito, and an empty carton of Ben & Jerry’s unearthed from the freezer sat on his bedside table. Normally Chunky Monkey could solve most of Peter’s problems, but not this time. The Chunky Monkey had betrayed him, and now he had a stomach ache.

He knew he should be productive and put on the suit for a quick patrol before school, but he couldn’t work up the willpower. Considering his stomach, there was also the risk of barfing on unsuspecting commuters, and he figured that no one deserved that.

Instead, he felt as if he were on a massive see-saw going back and forth, back and forth.

May and Boston or Tony and New York.

He tried to imagine himself developing a Boston accent, and pronouncing _khaki_ and _car key_ the same way, with the long, drawling sounds. He knew Boston was close to MIT, was the home of Red Sox, and hosted a famous marathon, but his knowledge ended there.

Rolling over in his blanket burrito, Peter maneuvered to see the alarm clock. The red electronic numbers said it was 5:52am.

“Bwarrg,” Peter said, trying to form words, but failing spectacularly.

He closed his eyes, a few more tears slipping out. Only when his alarm chirped did he realize he’d managed to fall asleep again, and it was time for school. Silently, he unwrapped himself from his sheets and forced himself through the daily motions of waking up.

He took longer than usual to get ready. There was suddenly an expiration date on his time left in his apartment, so he wanted to savor every last moment. He took note of the way the sunlight crawled past his curtains, and how it hit the books on his desk. Moving the curtain aside, he glanced at the street below. He knew he was getting overly sentimental, but he’d miss being able to look at the dog walkers, or even watch as the lights in the apartment building across the street turned out one-by-one at night.

“I’m fine,” he said to himself. He was okay, he was okay, he was okay.

He was not okay.

With a forceful shove, he pushed his feelings to dusty corner of his brain and started to look for clothes. He hadn’t done his laundry in a while, so the only clean t-shirt that was left was one that Tony had given him that said _I’m into bondage_ above a picture of a hydrogen bond. Peter had never worn it in public before – he had a feeling Principal Morita probably wouldn’t like it – so he buttoned up a green plaid shirt over it.

Slowly opening his bedroom door, he peeked into the kitchen. May wasn’t up yet. Letting out a sigh, Peter grabbed his backpack and headed to the fridge.

Part of him was glad May wasn’t awake. He was ashamed of his actions last night, and he didn’t want to have to face May. With a groan, he remembered how he had completely bailed on the conversation. He should have congratulated May more, and thanked Tony, and-

The Star Wars theme suddenly came from his pocket. “Shit!” He whispered, trying to dig out his phone before he woke up May. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?” said quietly, moving back into his bedroom.

 “Peter, it’s Pepper.”

Her voice was clipped, rushed, and maybe a little worried. Peter reminded himself that Pepper was the most qualified person in the world to handle literally any type of problem. Forget lunch at home? Call Pepper, and she’d send someone to pick it up. Crisis in a foreign country? Call Pepper, and she’d have it solved within an hour.

“Can you get to the Tower?” Pepper let out a deep sigh. “I promised myself I would never make you skip school, but I received a tip from a friend in the Mayor’s office that there’s going to be a big press announcement this morning, and apparently it’s going to be about Spider-Man-”

“Spider-Man?” Peter squeaked. “What does the Mayor want with Spider-Man?”

“I don’t know, but we’re about to find out. Since we don’t know what we’re dealing with, I want you safe in the Tower, not at school. Is that okay? Can you put May on the phone?”

“She’s asleep, it’s fine. I can come,” Peter said, heart pounding. “I’ll leave a note.”

“Okay. Take the train and come in through the main lobby. Try and come in the doors with a group. Don’t get a visitor’s pass like normal, just wait for Happy.” Pepper paused. Peter could almost imagine her biting her lip like she normally did when she was thinking something over. “This is just me being precautious. I’m sure everything is fine, and we’ll send you to school later today with a doctor’s note.” 

Peter grimaced. “Okay. I’ll be there as soon as possible. Should I, um, bring anything?”

“Just your backpack, so you can go to school later.”

“Got it. Thanks, Pepper. See you soon.”

Peter hung up. Taking a breath, he leaned against the kitchen counter. When had things gone so completely off the rails? Just last night, he and Tony had been eating shawarma together and laughing about nonsense. He’d felt as if things were finally getting back on track.

His appetite was gone – there was still a fifty percent chance he would spew Chunky Monkey any moment - so stuffed a few granola bars into his backpack for later. Within two minutes he was out of the apartment, and on his way to the subway. It felt strange to skip his stop to Midtown and continue into the heart of the city.

He’d been to Stark Tower before, but nothing could prevent the sheer excitement Peter felt as he entered the lobby behind a tour group. Despite his nerves at the upcoming press conference, Peter could never stop being impressed by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, or the sleek white walls, or the way the way the Stark Industries logo dominated over the turnstiles that led to the bank of elevators. He felt like he was in a sleek, modern version of heaven.

The security guards at the reception desk were busy signing in a large group of eager-looking visitors, so Peter stood awkwardly near the turnstiles. It only took a few moments before an elevator dinged, and Happy appeared, a frown lining his face.  

“Kid,” Happy said. From the other side of the turnstile, he scanned his badge. “Come on through.”

Normally Peter scanned a visitor badge that the security desk gave him. He realized with a flash that Pepper was trying to reduce any electronic traces of him being in the building.

 _What does she think is coming?_ Peter wondered. He and Happy walked to the very last elevator, which was reserved for private access. “Penthouse,” Happy said. FRIDAY chirped in acknowledgement, and the elevator started its smooth ascent.

The one problem about Stark Tower was that despite the elevator’s speed, it was still a massively tall building, and that equaled awkward silences. Peter, unfortunately, just wasn’t equipped to deal with awkward silences.

“So,” he said, forcing a laugh. “Fancy seeing you this early in the morning.”

 _“Fancy seeing you this early in the morning?”_ Peter internally cringed. _You’re such a loser. Capital L Loser. Holy shit._

Happy made a noncommittal _mmm_ sound.

“You know, I haven’t had a churro lately,” Peter said, desperate for conversation.

Happy looked at his out of the corner of his eye. “O-kay?” he said, drawing out the word.

“I mean, hopefully that means the people of Queens are still okay with Spider-Man, it’s not like I have a churro tax or anything, it was just that one lady that one time, and it was nice, she was nice, but anyways I hope the lack of churros doesn’t reflect the mood of the people.”

Happy turned to fully face Peter. “Kid. Can I give you a piece of advice?”

Peter nodded eagerly. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course.”

“Chill.”

Peter blinked. “And?”

“That’s the advice. Chill.”

With that, Happy turned to face the doors, which opened perfectly on cue. Happy strode out into the main common area of Stark Tower, and Peter managed to duck out before the doors closed.

At one time, the floor had been the heart of the Avengers team. It was open concept, with a large, modern kitchen claiming one side of the floor. There were three fridges, two stoves, and a long, gleaming kitchen island. Nearby was a long table with enough chairs to seat at least ten. The only thing on the table was a pink orchid.

The tiled floor continued until the other side of the floor, where two steps down led to a carpeted area where a group of black leather couches and chairs faced a large, expensive TV that probably cost over a year of May’s rent. There were a few knick-knacks on the shelves that held unread books, and a bare glass coffee table sat in front of one of the chairs.

Peter had been here a few times, but only ever on the way to Mr. Stark’s workshop, which was accessed from a private staircase on the other side of the floor. The view of the city was phenomenal, but the space always made him feel sad. It was meant for a large group to live in. Instead, the lack of laughter or personal objects made the floor feel lonely.   

Pepper and Tony were standing barefoot on the carpet, arms crossed, watching a muted CNN playing on the TV. At the sound of the elevator ding, they both turned around.

“Pete, good to see you,” Pepper said, rushing over to give him a kiss on the head. Peter felt a warm blush on his cheeks. “I’m so sorry about all of this. I’m sure it’s nothing. If it’s not-”

“If it’s not, then we kill the baddie and go for margaritas,” Tony interjected, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Peter threw his backpack on one of the couches, which Happy glared at. “You know I can’t drink, Mr. Stark. I’m only sixteen.”

Tony cocked his head to the side. It reminded Peter of a dog that was trying to understand something. “No, you’re fifteen. You said you were fifteen.”

“I turned sixteen last month, that’s how time works, Mr. Stark.”

Peter thought back to the previous month when he, Ned, MJ, and a few members of the decathlon team had gone bowling, eaten way too much pizza, and crashed at May’s apartment for a sleepover. He tried not to think about the way MJ had licked her lips as she tried to clear away some pizza sauce. 

Tony whirled on Pepper. “Why did I not know it was his birthday last month?”

Pepper guffawed. “I’m sorry, I’m not your assistant any more-”

“Who is? Fire them.”

“You’ve already fired him, I’m interviewing for another-”

“It’s fine,” Peter said, throwing his hands up. He pointed at the TV. “I think it’s starting.”

It was an abrupt change in mood. Thoughts of Peter’s birthday aside, everyone turned to the TV. “FRIDAY, unmute,” Tony said.

The screen had cut to a live feed of One Police Plaza, the NYPD’s headquarters. Two men were standing at wooden podiums framed by American flags. One was wearing a suit, while another was wearing a decorated police uniform.

“That’s the Mayor, right?” Peter asked, gesturing to the man in the suit. Mayor Bill Hawkins lived up to his name, with a sharp, aquiline hawk nose and thin eyes. He was tapping his fingers on the podium. Peter’s stomach rumbled uneasily.

Pepper nodded. “Yes, and the head of the NYPD is the other one.” She gestured towards the dark-skinned man who had colorful medals and bars pinned to his chest.

“Good morning,” the Mayor said, looking at the media that was gathered before them. Peter could hear the clicking sounds from the cameras. “Thank you for joining us today. I have the pleasure to be here with Police Commissioner Martinez.” The other man nodded.

“We speak today on the topic of the new Sokovia Accords, which have been recently ratified by the United Nations. As we know, the edited version of the Accords allows the Avengers to continue operating as a private unit, albeit with reports being sent to a U.N. committee. This press conference is not about what the city thinks of this version of the Accords.”

 _From your tone, I think I can figure it out,_ Peter thought.

“The Accords still requires the full legal names and identities of enhanced individuals. There is currently only one unknown enhanced individual operating within New York City. Spider-Man.”

Peter’s heart froze. He felt himself slowly sitting down on one of the leather chairs.

The Mayor continued. “Spider-Man’s unknown identity is at odds with the Accords. I urge him or her to come forward and to present themselves to the authorities, who will document their biometric information. This is for the safety and security of our citizens.”

Hawkins cleared his throat. “Let me be clear. If Spider-Man does not reveal their identity to the New York Police Department, then the city will offer a cash reward to anyone who can provide proof of identity. Any pictures or other proof can be sent to Deputy Inspector Weston, whose contact information will be given to the media for dissemination.”

Commissioner Martinez spoke for the first time. “Until Spider-Man’s identity is revealed, any member of the Avengers is unauthorized to operate within the city’s boundaries. We will be taking questions after this conference.”

Hawkins looked directly into the camera. “Spider-Man, we will find you.”

The press conference ended, and reporters started to pepper the two men with questions. Peter didn’t hear any of it. He sat with his head between his hands, trying to stop the dizzying rush that consumed him. 

_Oh no, oh no, oh no, OH NO-_

All of his strategies for dealing with panic attacks and sensory overloads evaporated as if they’d never existed. The meditation, the affirmations, the visualizations of driving through Arizona – they were all gone, leaving him utterly defenseless.

“I-I can’t breathe,” Peter said, the words coming out broken. Shameful tears burned at his eyes, and the only thing to make the whole situation worse would be to cry in front of Tony. He frantically wiped them away.

“Hey, kid, it’s okay to cry,” Tony said, coming to kneel beside Peter. “Just let it out, this is stressful, it’s fine.”

Peter wasn’t sure where this downright _kind_ version of Tony was coming from, but it made him feel even more ashamed. He started to sob in earnest.

Tony must have left for a second, because a few moments later a box of Kleenex was placed on the coffee table in front of him. He reached for the tissues as the sobs started to subside. He appreciated that Tony hadn’t tried to touch him at all.

His vision was blurry as he opened his eyes. He and Tony were alone, the TV muted. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I’m so sorry-”

“Stop apologizing, you sound Canadian.”

Peter sniffed back a laugh. “This is all my fault. Now the Avengers can’t do anything in the city.”

Tony gestured broadly to the empty room. His words were laced with bitterness. “Does it look like we were doing anything anyway? The Avengers is pretty much a two-man deal right now.”

For the first time he looked at Tony in the eyes. “What do you mean?”

His mentor pointed at him. “You and me, kid, we’re all that’s left. I couldn’t tell you where the rest of them are.”

Peter shook his head. “I turned down your offer, I’m not an Avenger.”

Tony was sitting with his back against the coffee table. He readjusted so he could lean closer to Peter, and he tapped him on the chest, right over his heart. “That’s what makes an Avenger,” he said softly. “Not expensive suits, or freaky genetics, or other-worldly powers. It’s right here. You couldn’t _not_ be an Avenger if you tried. Peter, I chose you for a reason. You’ve got the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, I know a lot of dickwads, so the bar is low, but still.”

It took all his willpower not to cry again. “Thanks, Tony.”

Tony’s eyes lit up with manic glee, and he did a small fist pump. “You did it! You called me Tony! If I knew a heart-felt monologue was all you needed, I would have done it a long time ago.”

A watery chuckle escaped Peter. “Your heartfelt monologue wasn’t accurate.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “You still have Rhodey.”

“I know, but I was trying to have a moment.” Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Though now we do need to figure out what we need to do with you. Trust me, I’m pissed. Why didn’t Hawkins come to me first? Or SHIELD? They jumped straight to the public. It smells fishy. I hate fish. Had some awful fish in Spain once.”

He popped up and sat in the chair next to Peter. “Leave this one to me and Pep, kid. Maybe we can swing something so that we can keep your identity a secret until you’re eighteen.”

“Eighteen?” Peter said. In his head, he couldn’t imagine a world in which everyone knew who he was. He had just assumed in his head that he could keep being his anonymous friendly neighborhood Spider-Man for perpetuity. 

His teachers would know. His friends would know.

MJ would know.

“That’s only two years away,” Peter said. All the Avengers dealt with paparazzi, fans, and protesters, although each of them reacted differently. Tony usually posed for a picture and flashed a peace sign, but Clint once punched an unruly photographer in the nose and Nick Fury had to do damage control for a week.

Peter couldn’t imagine being unmasked and not being able to get groceries because of the paparazzi following him around. What if he had to buy something embarrassing, like toilet paper? God forbid that the citizens of New York knew that Spider-Man _pooped-_

“Two years is better than today,” Tony said, grimacing and looking away. “It’s not the way I want it to be. Honestly, kid, this is my fault. I recruited you and got you in this mess.”

Peter scrambled forwards. “Don’t say that, Mr. Stark! I would be Spider-Man with or without you. I literally would have died without your suit.”

“What do you mean?” Tony asked sharply. “When would you have died?”

Peter looked away. “Uh, well, multiple times, to tell you the truth. My hoodie wouldn’t have protected me from knives. Or you know, bullets.”

“How often are you being shot at?” Tony squawked.

“Not that often!” Peter said, throwing up his hands. “Maybe like, twice-”

“Jesus Christ,” Tony said. “Why isn’t Karen reporting this? Why aren’t you telling me? Peter, if you’re going to accept the suit, you need to accept the responsibility and everything that comes with it-”

“Mr. Stark-”

“I mean, you’re sixteen, that’s basically an adult, I know I should trust you on your own, but you make it _so_ hard-”

“Mr. Stark-”

“Is this why parents have gray hair? Does the stress wear them out from trying to keep a child from, oh, I don’t know, getting _shot_ at-”

“Mr. Stark, look at the screen!” Peter yelled, pointing. CNN was still playing, but the view had switched to a livestream of Manhattan, not far from the Tower.

The camera followed a silver Iron Man suit of armor as it threw a car into a high-rise building.

“What the fuck?” Tony yelled, launching out of the chair. He instantly tapped the bracelets on his wrists, and moments later, his own Iron Man armor came whooshing towards him from some sort of hidden compartment. Peter ducked out of the way of the helmet. Within seconds, Tony was completely suited up.

“That’s the Mark 47 suit, it’s not launched yet,” Tony said. Despite the faceplate, Peter could feel the heat from Tony’s stare. “Stay. Here.”

For the first time, Peter felt zero desire to join the fight. He truly felt that Tony would literally vaporize him to smithereens otherwise. “Okay,” he said quietly.

Tony waved at the window, and several glass plates clinked into each other as they opened. A cold breeze filled the apartment. Tony sprinted towards the gap and threw himself out the window, causing Peter’s stomach to churn even more. After a few seconds, Peter could hear him activate the thrusters and speed towards the fight.

The windows didn’t go back together, so Peter got cold quickly as he unmuted the TV. Where had Pepper and Happy gone?

Peter clenched the armchair so tightly he worried about tearing it. Hawkins had literally _just_ said the Avengers weren’t allowed to operate within the city, and less than five minutes later, Iron Man jumped out a window. Incredible.

Now that Peter thought about it, the timing seemed way too suspicious…  

Moments later, Peter’s attention was caught by the TV, where the real Iron Man tackled the other suit of armor into the side of a truck, the sides crumpling. Peter watched in horror as the suit flicked Tony back as if he were a mosquito.

 _It’s the latest model,_ Peter thought to himself. _It’s more advanced, he’ll never be able to do it alone._ _He needs help…_ His whole body was shaking.

Peter glanced upwards, praying to whatever god happened to be listening at that moment. _Please keep him safe, I can’t lose another dad._

The thought jolted him. He’d never thought of Tony as his dad before. Unbidden, Tony’s comment from earlier came back to him. _Is this why parents have gray hair?_

It was hard to follow the action onscreen, since the two suits were constantly flying in and out of the camera’s range. The Mark 47 was similar in build to the Mark 46 that Tony was wearing, so it was only the gold-and-red titanium that allowed Peter to keep track of where Tony was.

The cameraman struggled to focus in on the fight, but Peter watched in horror as the suit of armor easily dodged every grenade, missile, or laser that Tony was shooting. From the open window, Peter could hear sirens and people screaming as they fled the scene.

There was a high-pitched tearing sound, as if the sky itself had ripped open, and the camera fell to the pavement. The only thing Peter could see was a tilted thin strip of sky next to a row of shattered windows. Orphaned papers fluttered from the building.

Moments later, someone picked up the camera and pointed it down the street.

Tony was lying on the ground, not moving.

“NO!” Peter screamed, standing up so violently that he tripped over the coffee table. He lost his balance and crashed right through the glass top. He landed awkwardly on one of the metal support beams, with thick shards of glass embedded in his arms and left thigh. “Fuck!”

He slowly extracted himself from the debris, small rivets of blood staining the carpet below. Peter wondered if bleach would get that out.

 _Am I disassociating?_ He thought to himself as his vision wobbled. He forced himself to look at the TV.

Tony hadn’t moved.

Near the elevators, he could hear concerned voices shouting his name. Or was that through the TV? His vision was blurry. Was he blind? No, he was deaf, he couldn’t hear anything. Or maybe he couldn’t feel anything, because the wave of darkness was lapping at his ankles like a wave, and he was drowning and drowning and drowning and –

Drowned.

* * *

The smell of bleach woke Peter up.

The bitter smell catapulted him back to the hospital, back when he first heard about Ben’s death. He remembered the gentle and sad look on the doctors’ faces, and the way May was absolutely shattered, and how he’d felt like an utter failure at his inability to save Ben.

He opened his eyes, and for a minute, he thought he had been transported in time. Maybe he was still in the hospital, comforting May. Maybe everything after Ben’s death been one incredible dream to distract himself from facing an impossible reality. Maybe he’d never met Tony Stark.

“Holy shit kid, don’t do that again. Scared the bejesus out of us.”

Not a dream.

Happy was sitting beside his bed, fiddling with his watch. They were in some sort of private hospital room. Wincing, Peter looked down to see that his wrists were tightly bandaged, and there was an IV sticking into his arm.

“We thought Tony was going to be the problem, but he’s fine. Right as rain. You, meanwhile, managed to somehow smash a table to bits-”

“Where’s May? And Tony?” Peter asked, his voice aching with the effort. It felt as if he’d eaten sandpaper, and washed it down with rusty nails. “Water?” he asked.

Happy grabbed a glass from a side table, filled it, and gave it to Peter. His throat instantly felt better.

“May’s on the way,” Happy said. Peter knew he’d never admit it, but it looked like he’d been crying. “Boss is fine, just pissed his suit got hacked.”

“Is that what happened?” Peter asked. He tried to breath slowly, but he could feel the panic at the back of his throat. Tony had looked dead.

Happy refilled Peter’s glass, spilling a few drops with his shaking hands. “Apparently. We have no idea who did it, but my guys are looking into it. All we know is that it was hacked by someone outside the Tower, and managed to completely shut down the current Iron Man suit with a targeted EMP burst. Tony has safeguards against that, obviously, but it was something we’ve never seen before. He’s dealing with SHIELD right now. He thinks Nick Fury may be having a shit hemorrhage.”

“What happened after the EMP burst?” Peter said. He felt groggy, like waking up from a nap that went too long. He wondered what time it was.

Happy leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“What, did I stutter?” He shook his head. “Nothing. The other suit powered down on its own, and the NYPD confiscated it. FBI will probably get involved.”

A blonde woman in blue scrubs knocked before entering the room. “Glad to see you awake, Peter,” she said, a French accent tracing her words. Her name tag read Cynthia. She walked over and started to examine the bandages. “How do you feel?”

“A bit fuzzy, to tell you the truth.” Peter looked around the windowless room, noting the various charts and screens. “What hospital is this?”

“It’s still the Tower,” Happy said. “When we designed the building, we built in medical facilities, knowing that Tony is a bit of a glutton for punishment.”

“He did throw himself into a galactic portal with a nuclear bomb,” Cynthia agreed. “You should hear my daughter talk about it. She says things like, _‘If Tony Stark can yeet himself to space and survive, I can do this math test.’”_

Happy chuckled to himself as Cynthia analyzed his vitals. “You should have seen what the Avengers did over the years,” he said. “Clint had a lot of knife wounds from Natasha’s ‘practice’. Banner would get hospitalized for exhaustion because he would literally forget to eat. Steve would burn himself cooking dinner, because he always forgot that the stove elements are built into the stovetops nowadays.”

There was an awkward pause, everyone in the room realizing that none of that would ever happen again. “So you’re not the first person to be here,” he finished with a wince. 

“Your blood sugar is low,” Cynthia said, saving Peter from having to respond. She pointed at something on his chart. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Peter flashed back to last night, burrowed in his covers, listening to Mariah Carey and eating Chunky Monkey. “Um, maybe 3am? It was-”

“It was disgusting, whatever it was. Did you eat a banana? Because your puke smelled like banana,” Happy said with a smirk.

Peter groaned, leading back into his pillow. He hadn’t noticed that someone had changed him into a hospital gown. “Oh God, I puked? I’m so sorry, I’m never eating ice cream again.”

“You say that now,” Cynthia said, “But don’t worry, you’ll be feeling like yourself soon, ice cream cravings included. Oh, and I liked your shirt, by the way.”

Peter groaned, thinking back to his _I’m into bondage_ shirt.

“Can I see Tony?” Peter asked. He couldn’t wait to take off the gown and shower. Ned and MJ would probably be worried, too. His phone was probably wherever his old clothes were.

Happy shook his head. “The Mayor’s office is out for blood. The Avengers are banned from operating in the city, so obviously Iron Man making an appearance right after the announcement is… awkward. Tony wants to be down here, but he’d also trying to stop Fury from decapitating him.”

“It’s clearly a set-up!” Peter said, scrambling upwards until Cynthia gently pushed him back. “There’s no way it’s a coincidence.”

“Maybe so, but leave that to Tony to figure out.” Happy’s phone buzzed, and he looked down to read a notification. “Your aunt’s here. You ready to get chewed out?”

“No,” Peter groaned. “Never am.”

A few minutes later, a security guard let May into the room. Her hair was completely frizzed out, and her mascara was smudged. “Peter!” she exclaimed, rushing to give him a sweaty hug.

“May,” Peter said, gripping her tightly.

The expected chewing out never came. Instead, Cynthia briefed Peter and May on his injuries. She explained that the glass hadn’t done any major damage, but he should be careful walking, since a particularly thick shard of glass had been embedded in his thigh. She wanted to put him in a wheelchair – or at least crutches – but Peter wouldn’t hear of it.

“The elevator in my apartment is broken, it would just be a hassle,” Peter said.

Cynthia didn’t say anything, although she furrowed her eyebrows.

She insisted on keeping Peter under supervision for another hour, but she eventually cleared Peter to go home. The only reason she felt comfortable letting him leave so early was because May was a nurse herself, so Peter would be under constant supervision. She gave Peter back his old clothes, which had thoughtfully been washed.

Thankfully Happy agreed to drive both of them back to Queens, since Peter really didn’t want to navigate the subway on a wonky leg. Peter had wanted to see Tony before he left, but Happy said Tony would call him later.

During the drive home, Peter finally got a chance to check his phone. He had twenty missed text messages from Ned, and three from MJ. In all his life, Peter had never seen MJ double-text, let alone send three.

Despite the awful situation, Peter felt his heart grow warm.

Happy drove the Rolls Royce up to the curb outside his apartment building. “You call me if you need anything, you hear?” Happy said, looking into the rear-view mirror.

“Sure thing, Hap,” May said, gathering up her purse.

“‘Hap?’” Peter repeated. “Since when has he been Hap?”

His aunt didn’t say anything, but instead slid out of the seat and kept the door open for Peter. He grabbed her hand to leverage himself out of the seat, his leg twinging. “Um, what?” he whispered, gesturing frantically back at the car.

May just bugged her eyes out at him – the classic, _Shut Up Peter_ look – and closed the door. Happy honked before driving away, and Peter vowed to question her later.

“You should have taken the crutches,” May said, turning to face the apartment building. Peter leaned on her as he hobbled up the front steps and into the dingy lobby. “I really need to call the superintendent about the damn elevator-”

“It looks like you don’t need to,” Peter said, pointing. The perpetual Out of Order sign was gone.

“I don’t believe it,” May said. “The sign probably fell off.”

“Let’s test it,” Peter said. He carefully walked a few steps and pressed the up button. It dinged happily, and the doors opened.

May gasped. “What are the chances!” She helped Peter get into the elevator, and the doors slid shut. “What perfect timing.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, yawning. “I should fall into tables more often.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” May warned. A minute later, they stumbled into their apartment, and Peter felt a gravitational pull towards his bed.

He mumbled something about sleep to May. She said something back, but Peter didn’t hear. If someone had offered him the choice between a million dollars and his bed, he’d choose the bed.

Carefully lowering himself onto his bed, he saw his alarm clock read 1:52pm. It had only been a few hours, but so much had changed. Not only was there a ticking time bomb on his time in the apartment, but now there was one on his identity, too.

He groaned as he pulled the covers up. He wished he could have seen Tony before he’d left.

Worst of all, Tony was going to get in trouble because of him. Until Peter revealed his identity, the Avengers couldn’t work in New York. And unfortunately, New York and alien activity went together like peanut butter and jelly.

The city wasn’t safe with him in it. It was just a matter of time before more shit went down, like it had today.

As Spider-Man, his goal was to make New York a safer city. But with the Mayor’s decree, his presence hindered the Avengers, who were more powerful and important than he was.

His decision lodged into his brain, like a lock to a key.

If Spider-Man wasn’t in New York City, the Mayor would back off, and the Avengers would be allowed to operate again. Tony would be able to protect the city. Protect Queens.

Closing his eyes, Peter swallowed. He’d made up his mind, and he would tell May when he woke up.

He was moving to Boston.

* * *

Kevin Thompson was having a clumsy day.

In his personal life, Kevin was meticulous. His socks were folded and sorted by color in his dresser. His books were organized by author and genre. His playlists were carefully curated for each mood.

As an administrative assistant in the NYPD’s 106th precinct, Kevin had to live up to high standards. Today he was downright inept. 

Of course, in his day-to-day work, he was stellar. His reports to Deputy Inspector Reg Weston were always filed on time, and never had any typos. His performance reviews noted that he was professional, courteous, and had an incredible attention to detail.

That morning, Weston had assigned him to review the pictures that people were sending in of Spider-Man as part of Mayor Hawkins’s reward scheme. People were already dropping off pictures at the precinct, and he could only imagine how many would come through the mail.

“You do what you see fit,” Weston had said cryptically, gesturing to the stack.

Weston knew that Kevin was a huge Spider-Man fan. Kevin was thirty-four, but did he have Spider-Man underwear? Fuck yes he did.

He’d never met Spidey, and he didn’t know anyone who had. Queens had a population of over two million, so the odds were low he’d ever get an autograph. That didn’t stop his obsession, though. Spider-Man was proof that it was okay to stick to your roots, and to care deeply for your neighborhood.

Most of Kevin’s college friends had moved away to trendy cities like Nashville or Denver or Seattle. New York was too busy, too populated, too _much_.

“New York smells like shit,” one of his friends had said.

“That’s part of the charm!” he’d countered.

Despite the constant subway malfunctions, or the sewer rats that were definitely infected with rabies, or the constant tsunami of tourists taking selfies in the middle of the sidewalk, Kevin loved his city. With Spider-Man, he found a hero who loved it as much as he did.

That day, Kevin waited until everyone else had gone home before he took out the stack of envelopes. Using a letter opener, Kevin quickly sliced through the first envelope, and several pictures fell into Kevin’s hand.

In each one of them, Peter Parker was unmasked.

In the first glossy picture, Peter was wearing his suit, but his mask was completely off. He was eating a plastic-wrapped sandwich. In the second picture, he was in his boxers in an alley, one leg into the Spider-Man suit. The rest of the pictures were similar. It looked as if the photographer had been collecting images from multiple dates.

Fortunately this wasn’t a problem, because Kevin was clumsy.

With a casual sweep of his arm, the pictures fell into the shredder that accidentally sat beside his desk.

Oops.

Due to a bizarre twitch in his thigh, Kevin’s leg brushed against the shredder, turning it on. The pictures were instantly destroyed. How awkward.

He continued to slice into each envelope. Somehow all the pictures ended up in the shredder. Oh goodness, he didn’t mean for that to happen.

Occasionally someone had sent in an entire USB full of pictures of Peter Parker as Spider-Man. In those cases, there was a series of unfortunate coincidences. The USB would somehow end up getting smashed by a hammer. Even weirder, the USB remains would somehow end up in the bucket of bleach that the janitor had carelessly left unattended.

How unprofessional.

Of course, not all of the submitted pictures were of Peter. Sometimes there would be a fan cosplaying as Spider-Man, and a tourist looking for the money had snapped a picture and hoped for the best.

Kevin kept these pictures and put them into the folder titled _For Mayor’s Office._

Thinking it over, he realized that Weston was involved more deeply than he had initially realized. Weston was the officer who ensured that all photos of Spider-Man were re-routed to Queens precincts.

He had a feeling he wasn’t the only administrative assistant staying late that night.

Kevin couldn’t believe there hadn’t been a leak yet. One of his best friends was Priya Patel, who lived behind his favorite pizza shop. Priya had phoned Kevin in hysterics last night, talking about something called a _code red_ and a livestream and some girls from Brooklyn. He knew Priya was involved in something called the Projects, but he didn’t know much about it.

The timing was strange. If someone had livestreamed Peter’s identity reveal last night, then why would Mayor Hawkins ask for the public’s help in unmasking him today? How did Stark’s suit of armor going haywire fit in?

Kevin had watched the fight go down live from a Twitter feed. He’d received a text from Priya, saying _My friend Cynthia is a nurse @ Stark Tower, she says Peter hurt his leg. But elevator @ Peter’s apt is broken. Can you fix?_

He wasn’t a paradigm of administrative assistant efficiency for nothing. He phoned an elevator repair company – strategically located in Queens – and had tactfully explained the problem. The repairmen were out the door and on the way to Peter’s apartment before Kevin was even off the phone. _Done_ , he had texted five minutes later.

Throughout the day, he had refreshed Twitter every few minutes, waiting for a picture leak. None came. Every site from the New York Times to TMZ was clean. 

 _It takes a village,_ Kevin thought to himself. He stared at a picture of Peter, who wasn’t wearing a mask while draining the crumbs of a Pringles can into his mouth.

_We’ll protect our boy._


	4. Mural

The next time Peter noticed, he almost puked from excitement. It wasn’t his finest moment. 

It had been a long week. Seven days had passed, and Tony hadn’t called, texted, or visited. Not even the paparazzi had caught sight of him. The media was speculating that he’d fled town, or that he’d been abducted by aliens (previously an impossible notion, but now a legitimate concern). Hawkins and Martinez – the Mayor and Police Chief – hadn’t released a statement, despite Iron Man’s appearance.

Only Pepper had reached out, just once. She’d called him from a burner phone and had told him not to go out as Spider-Man until things calmed down.

“Stay home, watch some movies,” she’d advised. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Sure,” Peter had said, the word coming out too sarcastically.

Despite the burning sensation of betrayal in the back of his throat, he’d done what she said. Thursday he took off from school, and watched the Star Wars Holiday Special mainly because he wanted to watch something that was more of a flaming dumpster fire than his own life. On Friday morning May had taken off his bandages.

“You can still take the day if you want,” she’d said, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Although physically you’re fine. Your weird super healing did a great job. Wish I could have that when I stub my toe.”

Peter had wanted to go to school. He had planned on telling Ned everything, starting with Boston. But his friend was freaking out over the whole identity thing, and he just didn’t have the heart to make him worry any more.

So Peter didn’t tell him.

MJ had been concerned too, but mainly because Peter had missed two days of school. “Don’t forget we’re partners on the English project,” she’d said. “If you die on me and I have to do all the work, I’ll be pissed.”

Something was off with her. On more than one occasion he caught her nodding off while Mr. Martin was lecturing about feminist themes in 19th century literature – one of her favorite topics.

Peter went out and bought her a KitKat bar, since he knew that it was her favorite chocolate bar. He was too shy to give it to her in person, so he slipped it into her bag.

(“You’re never going to get laid,” Ned had moaned when Peter told him.)

Peter regularly called and texted Happy and Tony, but he never heard a response.

It was hard to stay upbeat. Summer was over, homework was starting to pile on, and he didn’t have Spider-Man as an outlet. Already the anchors on the news were noting that crime in Queen’s was starting to trickle upwards. By Thursday of the following week – a week since the haywire suit incident – Peter was officially bumming.

He was running late for school, of course. He hadn’t been able to find his phone, which ended up sandwiched between an actual sandwich and a shirt that he’d thrown on his desk. Stuffing a chocolate chip muffin in his mouth, he made his way to the subway.

His morning route was a sacred routine. Turn right, head towards the rush of cars, pass by the Starbucks and other hipster coffee shops. Cross the street. Say hi to Pickles, the cat that always sat in the window of a brownstone licking its paws. Turn left, pass by the bakery, and-

Something caught his eye.

Stopping in his tracks, he took three steps backwards to face an alley.

It was a wider alley than normal so that dumpsters would be able to fit through. It was bordered by the bakery on one side and a bar on the other. Peter often stashed his backpack there, since the bakery always smelled like cinnamon and it reminded him of Christmas.

And there, covering the entire brick wall of one side, was a mural of Spider-Man.

“No way!” Peter squealed, dropping his bag to the sidewalk and starting to fish out his phone. “This is unreal!”

The mural showed Spider-Man mid-swing, with one hand outstretched towards the viewer. Capital letters in red shouted, “THANK YOU SPIDER-MAN.” Underneath the picture was an endless list of names in different colors and handwriting. A splash of bright orange writing yelled, "THESE ARE SOME PEOPLE WHO YOU'VE HELPED."

“So cool, so cool, so cool,” Peter chanted under his breath, his hands shaking as he took a picture. His stomach churned with excitement. No one had ever done something that cool for him before. His lock screen was a treasured selfie of him and Tony, so he ended up making the picture his wallpaper.

There was a 0% chance he could keep that to himself, so he immediately sent it to Ned.

Only at the last second did he see the name at the top of the screen. _MJ._

FUCK.

He’d sent it to MJ by accident.

Nonononono. Curse his fat fingers.

She responded quickly, which didn't even give him time to come up with an excuse. Panic started to creep into his stomach. He decided to play it cool.

k.

That was her response. k.

k as in, _I accept this blatant lie?_ Or k as in, _Peter Parker, you’ve revealed your superhero alternate identity to me and now I’ll use it to blackmail you for the rest of your life?_

No, MJ wouldn’t do that. Or would she? She was without a doubt a Slytherin, although Peter knew that she was a secretly a softie. She was like an egg – hard on the outside, soft of the inside.

Oh, God, his similes needed work.

Once he got to school he would play it by ear. He’d see how MJ acted around him, if she was suspicious of his identity.

He wouldn’t let this slip-up get in the way of something cool. At the end of the day, someone had taken the time to create a masterpiece of artwork, and it made his entire week better.

Smiling to himself, he started to jog towards the subway.

* * *

MJ seemed normal. She narrowed her eyebrows at him when he walked into English late, which sounded harmless, but her eyebrows could narrow in a sharp crease that made Peter gulp. But she did share her Skittles with him at lunch, so that was nice.  

They were seated on the same side of one of the long tables in the cafeteria. Ned was in the computer lab working on a project for a programming class that Peter wasn’t taking, so he was glad for the company. It sucked whenever he had to eat lunch alone.

MJ was militant about separating her Skittles into separate groups of colors before eating them, and she’d quickly forbidden Peter from eating the yellow ones. The rest were up for grabs.

“So that mural you sent me,” MJ said, popping back the last of the yellows. “Pretty cool.”

“Yeah,” Peter mumbled. “So cool.”

“Mmm,” MJ said.

Mmm? What did _mmm_ mean? Peter clenched his fists. He could get through the conversation like a normal human being. 

“Spider-Man… man of spiders… cool guy…”

As it turned out, he could not get through the conversation like a normal human being.

“I wonder who he is,” MJ said, biting into her sandwich. “Spider-Man could be anyone. He could be in this room.” She gestured at everyone else eating their lunches.

“Crazy,” Peter croaked.

MJ leaned forwards. “Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve ever come across Spider-Man and not even known it. I could have passed by him on the streets. Or maybe I know him? Maybe-” She cut herself off, and Peter had to grab the table from suspense. She looked up over his shoulder, into the hallway beyond.

“Is that Mr. Ibrahim? Shit, I need to talk to him. Eat the rest of the Skittles, gotta run.” She quickly packed up her Tupperware and threw it in her bag that she slung over her shoulder. Peter turned around to watch her quickly catch up to Mr. Ibrahim, Midtown’s one singular art teacher.

He glanced around the busy caf, but he didn’t see any of his decathlon friends.

In the end, he would have to eat alone after all.

* * *

When the final bell rang for the day, Peter closed his Physics textbook with a dramatic snap. Another day without hearing from Tony.

“Someone’s hangry,” Ned said from the seat behind him. Peter swiveled in his chair to face him. “You free right now? Wanna get shawarma?”

“If I ever say no to that question, shoot me between the eyes,” Peter said, gathering shoving his notebook into his bag. “It means I’ve been taken over by an alien.”

The two of them argued over the logistics of alien body-snatchers on the way out of school. Peter claimed that it would be creepy, but Ned contended that it would be cool, because maybe if someone else was controlling his body, then he could finally talk to girls without tripping up his words.

It didn’t take them too long to walk to Shawarma Palace, their go-to place that Peter had hooked Ned on. Arabic music played quietly from the speakers, and the delicious scent of shawarma met them as they walked in.

“Oh God, I love that first hit,” Ned said, breathing in deeply.

“It’s shawarma, not cocaine,” Peter laughed.

“Same difference.”

As they waited in line, Peter remembered that it had only been a week since he was here last with Tony. He bit back a sigh. Obviously he wasn’t important enough for a call.

At least he hadn’t been outed yet as Spider-Man. It was a miracle that no one had managed to take a picture of him without his mask. Then again, Peter was smooth. He knew how to keep his identity secret.

They moved up a spot in line, and the man in front of them cleared his throat. “May I please have three of the special to go? With an extra side of hummus, please.”

Peter froze, thoughts of his identity flying out of his mind. The man had a very, very familiar Brooklyn accent.

In a violent whirl of memories, Peter was back in Germany.

He was struggling to hold a jet bridge from crushing him. Underneath the suit his knees were bleeding, and his ankle was twisted. His arms screamed with the effort as his one of his childhood heroes looked at him, bemused. _“You got heart, kid. Where ya from?”_

Captain America was here in New York, ordering shawarma right in front of him.

 _Oh fuck_ , Peter thought to himself, a cold shot of fear running through his veins. He’d stolen the guy’s shield and had dragged him over the asphalt. True, he’d lost the fight, but he’d managed to get a few bruises in.

Spinning on his heel and grabbing Ned’s shoulder, he stalked towards the door, swearing he would never come back to Shawarma Palace as long as he lived–

“Peter!” A friendly voice called from behind him. “Where are you going? We’ll be with you in just a second!”

No. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

It was Aliya, one of the managers. She was behind the counter and had been taking Captain America’s order.

The man himself turned around to face Peter.

Peter didn’t know it was medically possible, but his heart stopped. Seeing Captain America out of uniform was a bizarre experience. He’d seen pictures, of course, but it still felt unnatural. It was like seeing a teacher outside of school – it violated all known rules of the universe. 

Captain America was very on-brand, for the forties. He wore sharp, pressed khakis and a button-down plaid shirt that was rolled up to his elbows. A gold watch was wrapped around his wrist, and his shoes looked as if they’d been shined by a professional. A pair of sunglasses rested on his head. This close, Peter could see his eyes were an icy blue. He felt like he was back in detention, being lectured by a man in star-spangled spandex.

“Have you met Steve?” Aliya asked, gesturing towards him.

“I have not,” Peter said, his voice cracking on the last word. “I’m sorry, but I have to go, I have a thing, an important thing-”

“He doesn’t have a thing,” Ned blurted out.

Peter wished that his freaky spider powers had given him laser eyes, because he would have melted Ned into a puddle. Instead, Peter coughed awkwardly. “I forgot, my thing was cancelled.”

“Great!” Aliya said. “Let me just get Mr. Rogers’ order ready, and then I’ll be right with you.” She flashed a smile and started to carve the meat off the vertical rotisserie.

“So,” Captain America said, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “You kids live around here?”

Ned openly gaped, and for the first time, Peter really understood the expression _jaw drop_. If Ned wasn’t careful, he would start drooling, and he’d never get over the embarrassment. “Yes, uh, kind of, Mr. America. In Queens.”

Captain America laughed, and despite himself, Peter thought he could hear eagles soar. There was something about the guy that screamed patriotism. He vaguely remembered a Buzzfeed article titled _21 Reason Captain America’s Ass Represents the Only Good Thing about the U.S._ “Steve is fine,” he said.

“Captain America said I can call him Steve!” Ned frantically whispered to Peter, despite the fact that Steve could absolutely hear him.

“Great,” Peter said through clenched teeth. The worst part was that Steve was _friendly._ Peter wanted to hate the guy. He didn’t know exactly what happened between him and Tony, but he knew the super soldier was responsible for the rift between the Avengers. It was just hard to hate a guy who liked hummus and wasn’t bothered by Ned’s flailing.

Unfortunately, Ned didn’t get the hint from Peter’s reticence. Instead, Ned had a first-class ticket on the hot mess express.   

“Your shield is so cool. It’s made of a vibranium-steel alloy, right? Very cool, but have you thought about making some tech improvements? You could embed a screen or something, add some machine learning algorithms, make the shield learn, right? So if you get blasted by an alien – one of the mean aliens, not the pointy Star Trek ones – and the shield recognizes what hit it, and can make improvements for next time. But that’s a stupid idea, don’t listen to me. I’m just nervous, I mean, you’re the first Avenger I’ve ever met, which is surprising, because Peter knows To-”

Peter was frantically miming a cutting motion at his throat.

“-Because Peter knows To…day is my birthday, and I thought he would have organized a meet-and-greet. Or something. Peter’s the best friend I could ask for, right?” Ned said, his voice pitching upwards.

It was the worst recovery in the history of recoveries, but Peter forged ahead. “So, you just dropping by the city? You’re on your way somewhere else?”

Steve smiled at Aliya as she put two plastic bags of takeout on the counter. “Actually, I might be sticking around for a while. We’ll see.” He paid in cash and tipped heavily. “It was nice to meet you. I’m glad I’m not to only one who appreciates Aliya’s cooking.”

The manager herself smiled shyly. “Oh, stop. You’re too generous.”

Steve nodded his head to her before giving a small wave to Peter and Ned as he headed towards the door. “By the way,” he said, his hand on the door. “It’s okay if you know Tony Stark. You don’t have to lie to me.”

He nodded again, slid on the sunglasses, and pushed the door open before they could respond. The door closed shut with a bang, and Peter and Ned stared at each other for a breathless moment.

“He is _so cool_ -”

“Ned, you just let it slip that-”

“Did you see the way he put on those sunglasses? I’ll never be that slick.”

“He’s a super solider, he could eat me for breakfast-”

“Did you see his ass? I saw his ass.”

“Ned!” Peter said too loudly, drawing stares from other people in the restaurant. “Look, let’s, just-” He mouthed “Sorry” to Aliya and gestured at a table in the corner, far away from any of the other diners.

“I don’t know why you’re freaking out,” Ned said, sliding out a chair. He flicked off crumbs that the person before him had left. “He seemed like a nice guy.”

Peter looked down at the tablecloth. “I just think it’s suspicious that the Avengers are banned from operating in the city, and now Captain America shows up. Seems like a little too convenient. And I really, really don’t want him to know that I’m… you know.”

“Arachnid Boy,” Ned said.

“Yeah, exactly. After Berlin…” Peter trailed off at his friend’s sour expression. “What?”

Ned put down his own wrap. “It’s nothing.” His eye twitched; he was lying. A beat passed.

“Okay, it is something. I can’t believe Captain America is the first Avenger I’ve met, despite the fact that you literally hang out Tony Stark every week!” Ned was looking down at the floor, shoulders hunched.

Oh.

The music from the speakers suddenly seemed too loud for Peter, but he clenched his hands to fight back the familiar tingling sensation that preceded a sensory overload. 

He had a point. Week after week, Peter had had been experimenting in Tony’s lab, and had access to million-dollar equipment that would make any engineer weep in envy. He hadn’t shared any of it with his best friend, despite Ned always being there from day one, helping him not blow himself up in Chemistry.

“You’re right,” Peter said, leaning back against the vinyl chair.

“What?” Ned asked, eyes flicking back to Peter.

“I should have introduced you to Mr. Stark. I was just nervous, because I didn’t want him to think I was, you know, using him.”

Ned blinked. “I never thought about that.”

With a sigh, Peter pulled out his phone. He brought up his unanswered messages to Tony, and shoved the phone towards Ned. “It’s not like he wants anything to do with me anymore. He hasn’t contacted me at all in the past week.”

Ned skimmed through the messages. “Not gonna lie, you sound pretty needy in these.”

“I’m not needy!”

“‘ _Hi Mr. Stark, let me know if I can do anything,’”_ Ned quoted.  “And then, an hour later you sent ‘ _Hey Mr. Stark, I’m available to help if you need._ ’ Peter, you’ve texted him at least three times a day. That’s needy!”

Peter crossed his arms. “Remember how shocked we were when Han Solo got betrayed? Because that’s what I’m feeling right now.”

Ned slid the phone back over. “Peter, I love you enough to tell you the truth. Stop texting him. He’ll get back in contact. Dude is under a lot of pressure, and honestly, keeping you out of trouble is probably at the top of his list. So just chill.”

He was probably right. Tony was dealing with his haywire suit, as well as the trouble with the Mayor and the NYPD. No one in their right mind would bother such a busy man.

“I’m going to go to Stark Tower,” Peter said, standing up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“Peter! That is literally the opposite of chill!” Ned said.

“I know,” he admitted. “But I can’t wait any longer. I just need to know what’s going on.”

With a defeated sigh, Ned sat back. “Good luck,” he said.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” Peter was aware that this was categorically dumb. If Tony didn’t get in contact with him, it meant he didn’t want to be contacted. At the same time, he was about to explode if he didn’t get any answers.

His friend shot forward. “What?”

“Like you said, you wanted to meet Mr. Stark. Here’s your chance.”

Ned stood up so quickly that he had to grab the chair from toppling over. “Fuck yeah, Iron Man!”

* * *

On the short walk to Stark Tower, Peter mulled over what he’d say to Tony. _Where have you been?_ _Why haven’t you been in touch? Am I not good enough?_

A skateboarder sped past him, bringing him into the present. He and Ned were already standing in front of the Tower. Sometimes Peter could forget just how close Shawarma Palace was – although its proximity was one of the reasons the Avengers frequented there, after all. Well, that and the beautiful, greasy fries.

“Do you have any idea what you’re going to say?” Ned asked from beside him, looking up at the endless floors of glass.

“For sure,” Peter said.

He had literally no idea what he was going to say.

Miming casualness, he strolled into the lobby, Ned closely behind. He walked up to the security desk, just as he normally did when visited the workshop to work with Tony. It was getting close to the end of the working day, so there wasn’t a lineup.

“Hey, Rachel,” he said, nodding to the older dark-skinned woman behind the desk. “Can I grab my pass?”

“Peter!” Rachel smiled, looking up from the screen that was embedded in the desk. At this time of day she was the only guard. “It’s not Tuesday. You sneaking in?”

He winked, going for the charm offensive. “I sure am.”

When Peter and Tony first worked out their Tuesday afternoon workshop sessions, they’d agreed to keep a separate pass for Peter behind the security desk so that Peter wouldn’t lose it. Tony had said there was no need for a pass, and that FRIDAY could just recognize his biometrics. Peter had turned him down, arguing that he didn’t want special privileges.

It had been a lie.

In his weird, twisted way, he was scared about getting close to Tony.

The people he was close to had an awful habit of dying.

Brushing past the thought, he smiled again at Rachel. “Tony said he wanted to show me something, that it couldn’t wait ‘til next week.” Behind him, Ned coughed. “Oh, he wanted me to bring my friend as well. Can you swing a visitor pass for him?”

Rachel squinted at him. “Peter, you’re an awful liar. Mr. Stark isn’t in the building right now.”

Oh.

Oops.

He had a brief vision of getting thrown in jail and living off rat corpses, but Rachel smiled again. “Don’t worry about it. I can’t let you in, but I won’t snitch.” She winked.

Peter huffed out a breath of nervous energy. “I’m sorry. Please don’t tell Mr. Stark I came by.”

“I just told you, I’m not a snitch. But you owe me. Next time you come by, bring a-”

“Caramel macchiato with two extra shots of vanilla,” they both chorused at the same time.

He shot her two finger guns. “As if I could ever forget.” He drummed briefly on the desk before waving goodbye. “I’ll see you later!”

“Make good choices!” she called after him.

Peter and Ned slipped back through the revolving doors and into the busy rush of the Manhattan rush hour. Then again, sometimes it felt like Manhattan was one constant rush hour.

“Can Stark Industries employees be bribed with _coffee_?” Ned hissed, once they were on the sidewalk. “If I’d known that, I would have snuck in months ago.”

“No, I bring her a coffee every Tuesday. It’s our thing.” Peter was only half-heartedly listening. If Tony wasn’t in the Tower, where was he?

He fought back the crushing sense of disappointment. In his head, he’d hyped up seeing Tony so much that he’d truly believed he was about to see his mentor.

Looking out into the street, he took in a deep breath. He didn’t need Tony. He needed New York. And New York needed him.

He remembered the mural, back in his own neighborhood. The list of graffitied names came back to him. If he could help those people, he could help others.

For a moment, he took it all in. The honking taxi drivers, the people in business suits yelling into their phones, the people waiting at the bus stop, the woman roasting hot dogs and sausages at her cart, the tourists snapping pictures, the glittering skyscrapers, the bright neon advertisements in the windows, the child in the stroller, the billboards that shouted the names of upcoming Broadway shows, the subway roaring under his feet, the feeling of being in the middle of the vortex of eight million separate stories and hopes and wishes-

He loved his city.

Knowing that he would desperately miss it once he moved, he wanted to take advantage of every moment he could.

Glancing at Ned, he smiled. “I’m going out tonight. As Spider-Man.”

Ned grinned back. “That’s such a stupid idea. I love it.”

* * *

With a paintbrush carefully poised between his delicate fingers, Mohammed Ibrahim signed his famous signature with a flourish. His canvas was finally complete.

Not that many people would see it, these days. His gallery era was long gone, but that’s what he wanted. It was okay if his painting ended up in a dusty attic. It was the creation, the act of making, that made him feel whole.   

Art was a love story to the world.

As could be imagined, visual arts were not an emphasized at Midtown, the school for students destined for greatness in the STEM fields. Most students took the class as part of their mandatory arts credit, and in later years dropped it for courses like AP Biology or Advanced Physics. Mohammed couldn’t blame them; when he was in high school, he’d stopped taking science and math courses as soon as he could.

He knew he could have chosen to work anywhere. Four years ago he’d won a National Arts Award, and the year before that he had been profiled in the Washington Post. He’d schmoozed with celebrities, hosted countless gala openings, and had enough dark clothing in his wardrobe to be mistaken for a black hole.

But it was all empty.

He wanted substance. He wanted light. He wanted to make a difference. It didn’t take him long to decide on a teaching degree.

His resume would have made him a shoe-in at LaGuardia Arts or one of the colleges. But those students already knew the value of what they were studying.  

Midtown’s students needed art more than anything. They were brilliant, yes, but they risked becoming siloed in their numbers and algorithms. He wanted to show them how arts and the sciences could interact, and how they could enrich each other. He wanted his students to see the beauty in a balanced mathematical equation, or in the incredible intricacies of the human optical nerves. More importantly, he wanted his them to pause, take in the world around them, and revel in the magic of being alive.

When he first started teaching two years ago, he hadn’t expected any Picassos among the group, but he’d been surprised by the talent waiting to burst out of the students. Sometimes the talent was overt, like with Cindy Moon. Her sculptures were so lifelike that Mohammed expected them to talk.

Other times, the talent was hidden behind a veil, like with Michelle Jones. Her most dangerous asset was that she could immediately capture the truth and put it on paper. Mohammed had tried to praise her, but she always said it was nothing. “It’s just sketches,” she’d say. Still, Michelle had continued to take art into her junior year, so Mohammed was quietly pleased.

In other cases, the students were a lost cause. Take Peter Parker.

He’d put a hole through his papier-mâché. His paint colors always turned into a muddy brown. Even his stick men looked mutilated.

Spider-Man was art, though. Mohammed saw it in the way he arced through cities streets, or flipped past office buildings, or spun in mid-air. It was incredible that Peter and Spider-Man were the same person.

It was easy enough to figure out his identity, living in Queens himself. Most of his neighbors discussed Peter’s identity on the regular.

“He’s such a dumbass,” the man in the apartment next door said.

“But he’s our dumbass,” a woman named Rosemary snarked. 

It was hard trying to figure out who knew, and who didn’t. He was pretty sure that Rosemary was knee-deep in the mess, but other than that, he tried to be purposefully ignorant so that he wouldn’t blurt something out at the wrong time.

At Midtown, he could only guarantee that Mrs. Korhonen knew, since the two of them were close friends. They’d both moved to the U.S. within the past decade, so they’d bonded over parts of American culture that still baffled them. Mohammed could never stomach the idea of deep-fried butter on a stick. God Bless America.

As one of Midtown’s administrative assistants Mrs. Korhonen would go into Peter’s files and would edit his absences. That way, whenever he snuck out of school for super-hero duty, the system wouldn’t note a high level of absenteeism that could result in detention.

“Just doing my duty,” Mrs. Korhonen would say, swigging back one of her perpetual cups of tea. “I’ve gotta do something to help.”

It was a sentence that stuck with Mohammed. But how could he help? He was just an art teacher.

He was stuck on that thought as he watched Peter trudge through the week. In the halls, Peter would weakly smile at his decathlon friends, but it was easy to see his heart wasn’t into it. Mohammed was sure it was a rough time for him, between the Mayor’s announcement and that Stark suit going haywire.

A thought sprung into his head.

Other people were helping guard Peter’s identity. That was _their_ job.

His specialty was something different.

He may have left the art world years ago, but he still had contacts. Pulling out his phone, he called up CJ. They’d met at gala opening for underprivileged youth in the city. They’d both gathered around the cheese table, and while they never became friends, they were still good acquaintances.

“CJ, hey, how are you? Listen, can I ask a favor?”

Everything came together quickly. CJ was one of the best street artists in New York for a reason, after all. It had only taken him two days to plan and create the mural, but the true icing on the cake was the sprawling scrawl of the signatures. Quietly, CJ had put out feelers in the streets, with the offer that anyone who had been helped by Spider-Man could tag their name on the mural. Within hours, countless names stretched far down the old brick wall.

(Peter never learned who created the mural, but he did note that the list of signatures grew and grew until it wrapped around the alley and onto another block. Every time he saw the mural, he grinned wider.)


	5. Shawarma

The next time, Peter never even noticed. He was too busy trying to save himself from an ass-kicking.

Of course, it was his own decision that led him there.

“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” Peter said, staring off the side of the building.

“Um, I beg to differ,” Ned’s electronic voice said in his ear. “On a one-to-ten scale of Peter Doing Dumb Shit, this is maybe a seven. Well, seven and a half.”

He was standing on the green roof of the 21st floor of the Empire State Building. In a bid to be more eco-friendly, the building’s designers had turned several balconies into large terraces with stylish patio furniture, benches, and a few potted plants. It was way past midnight, and he prayed that any workers or tourists would be too tired or drunk to look up into the sky. He stood at the railing, gazing out over the neon-lit streets.

“What do you mean, seven and half?” Peter asked. “What’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever done?”

“Oh my God, there’s so many,” Ned said. “Don’t you remember that we’re banned for life from the McDonald’s on 42nd?”

Oh, right.

“And remember in swim class when we used the pool noodles as javelins and almost took out Flash’s eye?” Ned sighed. “Ah, the memories.” He continued to reminisce, but Peter had zoned out. He had to concentrate.

Tonight was the night he was going to figure shit out.

It was all too much to handle. The Avengers getting banned. Tony and the haywire suit. The reward for his identity. Boston. So instead of letting other people making decisions for him, he was going to get answers for himself.

He was positive Karen would snitch on him for going out in the suit, so Ned had taken three hours to overwrite some of her code. Peter could only imagine what Tony would say when he found out. Peter knew that he Would Not Be Pleased, but so be it.

Ned was still going on about Peter’s dumbest moments. “Ned,” he interrupted. “This is great. It is. But shouldn’t we be figuring out how we’re going to get into Stark Tower?” 

“Oh, sorry bro.” He cleared his throat, and Peter’s earpiece crackled uncomfortable in his ear. “It’s handled.”

“It’s handled? You make it sound like you just murdered someone.” He stared out over the Hudson, wondering if Ned could hide a body in the river. 

“Maybe I did.”

Silence.

“Ned?”

Silence.

“…You didn’t kill someone, right?” His voice broke on the last word.

Ned finally laughed. “Shit man, nah. Just screwing with you. But it really is handled. You know when I messed with Karen earlier? So she doesn’t snitch on you? I’m using her as a Trojan horse.”

“I owe you so much.”

“Yeah, I know. Anyways, I’ve got the ST schematics right here. You’re going to swing up to the sixtieth floor, east side. Using your spidey powers, you’ll cut your way through the window. That will put you right in a cafeteria, which has a lot less security than the other floors. My new best buddy Karen will block the security cameras. From there, I can track you as you move around the building.” There was a crunch in Peter’s earpiece – it sounded like Ned was eating Doritos. He thought it was both cool and weird that he could distinguish chip brands from their crunch.

There was a crackled huff in his ear. “I just want it on the record that I don’t approve of this. But you know what? If you want to do it, I’m here for you. Ride or die.”

“Ride or die,” Peter repeated, and flipped off the side of the building. He was always one for a dramatic exit.

Peter’s plan was built off what Rachel, one of Stark Tower’s security guards, had said earlier in the day. She’d mentioned that Tony wasn’t in the Tower. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that his workshop would be empty. It’s where Tony kept his most guarded projects, and he never bothered locking anything up, since FRIDAY would alert him to any shenanigans.

But Peter was the personification of shenanigans. With Karen acting as a Trojan horse, FRIDAY wouldn’t recognize him as a threat.

He knew the workshop like the back of his hand, and he figured it would be a good place to start looking for information. He would be in and out in under twenty minutes. It would be easy.

* * *

It was, in fact, not easy.

The first part of the plan had gone flawlessly. Peter had easily slipped into Stark Tower, and judging from the lack of blaring alarms or angry security guards, no one had noticed. God bless Ned and his godlike hacking skills.

His original plan was to sneak through the air ducts, but it turned out his idea of air ducts was based solely on repeat viewings of _Die Hard_. The Tower’s were way too tiny, and there were nails and rivets sticking out that would catch on his suit. Peter had briefly despaired about how he would get up to Tony’s workshop.

Then he had an idea. A stupid idea, but an idea nonetheless.

“Can you check if anyone is in staircase E?” Peter whispered to Ned.

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. “No,” Ned said. “At least, there’s no heat signatures. Are you seriously going to just walk up there?”

“Yes?” Peter said, turning it into a question. He didn’t want climb up on the outside windows. It had been a risk coming in through the sixtieth floor, and he didn’t want to spend any more time outside. “There’s the elevator shaft, but honestly, after Washington, I’d rather not deal with that. What’s wrong with the stairs?”

“It’s just…anticlimactic. You’re a superhero, and you’re taking the stairs? So basic.”

“If it works, it works,” Peter said, opening the door to the stairwell. It was dark and lit only by the occasional security light. FRIDAY would only turn the lights on fully when the building officially opened at six in the morning, which was still hours away.

He started the long trek up the stairs. At one point, he thought he heard a clang from far below, but he chalked it up to his imagination. Ned would have told him if someone was in the stairwell.

It was a dizzying affair, with an endless loop of gray stairs and floor numbers bolted to the doors. Despite being able to fling himself off buildings, Peter started to feel a bit motion sick.

Only when he was nearing the top did he realize his problem: the staircase didn’t go all the way to the penthouse for security reasons. Peter was positive that it was against the city’s fire codes. Then again, if Tony could nuke an evil alien base, then he could probably talk himself out of an FDNY violation.

“So, I, uh, made a mistake,” Peter said.

He could hear the eye roll in Ned’s voice. “This is not a surprise. What did you do?”

“I’m just going to deal with the consequences later,” Peter mumbled, exiting the stairwell. He was vaguely familiar with the floor, since it was the one right below the penthouse. It housed a lab built specifically for Dr. Banner, although he hadn’t been around much to use it. Tony had given him a tour a few months ago, but he seemed like he didn’t want to linger on the floor too much.

It was easy for Peter to navigate through the dark hallways to the elevator lobby. He pressed the up button, and the elevator dinged a few moments later. He stepped in. “Is it too hard to have an elevator take me to the penthouse?”

“YOU CANNOT BREAK INTO A BUILDING BY TAKING AN ELEVATOR,” Ned shouted, the earpiece crackling. “I CANNOT DEAL WITH YOU.”

“No haters, please,” Peter whispered, stepping into the penthouse lobby a moment later.

Of course, several things should be noted. First, Peter was a literal genius at biology and chemistry. Second, he was once part of the winning mathlete team in the tri-state area. Third, he was in a fierce competition with MJ for having the highest GPA in his grade. That all said, he was still oblivious.

He did not see the pair of shoes at the door. He did not see the sweater thrown over the banister. He did not see the baseball cap on the side table.

He did not see the man ten steps behind, watching him very, very carefully.  

Instead, Peter thought, _This is going great._

The only muted light came from the city far below, like murky sun seen from below water. Without the suit, without his spidey senses, Peter would have undoubtabley walked into the kitchen island. Instead, he slipped past it on the way to the spiral staircase -

The next thing he knew, he was slammed to the ground, with a knee in his back and his arm pinned behind him. The sheer surprise knocked him off his feet. A weird sound came out of him, along the lines of “Garh!”

“Peter?” Ned’s voice yelled in his ear. “Peter, are you there?”

“Get off of me!” Peter screamed. He was able to wrench his leg free, and twisting his body, he rammed his knee in between the legs of his assailant.

“Fuck!” the other guy yelled, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he grabbed Peter’s gloved hand, and started to push back until he could start to hear his fingers crack.

“Let – me – go!” Peter kicked the guy again.

“PETER?” Ned yelled. “WHEN I SAID RIDE OR DIE, I MEANT RIDE. NOT DIE.”

“SHUT UP, NED.” Peter continued to thrash, but the guy had suddenly stopped the assault on his fingers.

“Who the hell is Ned?” the guy asked.

“Who the hell are you?” Peter responded.

And then, the lights turned on.

Peter was on the floor, so he only had a view of the floor underneath the fridge. He could see a blueberry and a dusty French fry. Someone was clearly forgetting to clean underneath.

“What the hell is going on?” A woman’s voice said. It was familiar. Where had he heard it before? Now that he thought of it, the guy’s voice seemed familiar as well. 

“I went to grab a snack, but it turns out I had to squish a spider first,” the guy said. He gently shook Peter’s shoulders. “He’s so _tiny_! But he packs a punch.”

“I’m not tiny,” Peter grumbled, figuring he wasn’t about to die. He sat up, and everything dizzily clicked into place.

He was sitting on the floor of the penthouse kitchen, next to the fridge. The long kitchen table, normally sparse except for the occasional orchid, was strewn with Styrofoam containers and plastic utensils. A jacket was thrown over the back of a chair. Grocery bags filled with M&Ms and Twizzlers sat on the counters. A pair of slippers had been kicked off underneath the table. There was a phone charger plugged into an outlet. A paperback novel was bookmarked in the middle.

The penthouse, for the first time since Peter had been there, looked lived in.

It was easy to slot the missing pieces into the puzzle.

“I’m so catastrophically fucked,” Peter whispered, looking up at Hawkeye and Black Widow.

“So fucked,” Hawkeye confirmed, nodding. He was crouched down next to Peter, his arms still grabbing Peter’s shoulders. “Hey. I recognize you. Berlin?”

“Yeah,” Peter said weakly.

“Captain America kicked your ass, if I remember correctly.” Standing behind him, Black Widow covered her smile with her hand. “You’re smaller than I thought you were. How old are you? Fourteen?”

“I turned sixteen last month,” Peter protested.

“Why are we ignoring the fact that he just broke into Stark’s place?” Black Widow asked, the smile dripping away. Her voice was neutral, but there was an iciness in her eyes that Peter didn’t like. Her fingers tapped rhythmically on the back of a barstool chair that sat at the kitchen island. He wondered just how many people she’d killed. Did people keep track of stuff like that? Peter kept a list of every pizza place he’d eaten at in the city. Somehow, he imagined that Black Widow did not.

Peter wracked his brain for words. Everything had seemed like a good idea at the time – but the whole thing had relied on the fact that the Tower was supposed to be empty. Hadn’t Rachel said that Stark wasn’t in the Tower?

He mentally went through his options. He could try and explain himself. He could try and crash through the windows and flee to a hamlet in Kazakhstan. He could pray for a quick but painless death at the hands of Black Widow, which was sucky but yet also a cool way to go.

Instead, he said, “Can I get off the floor?”

His world shifted as Hawkeye hefted him upwards and pushed him onto the same barstool that was next to Black Widow. Peter had sat here just weeks ago, working on his homework.

“I just want to get this straight,” Black Widow said, staring right at him. Even through his mask, he could feel the heat of her glare. “You broke into one of the most secure places in the city, for whatever reason. And you interrupted Clint’s snack run.”

“I just wanted a cheese stick,” Clint said. “You interrupted my cheese stick.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, because he wasn’t sure what else he should say.

Clint sniggered. “So polite. I wasn’t this polite when I was a kid. Were you?” he tilted his head up at Black Widow.

“No,” she said. Only then did Peter notice what she was wearing: dark skinny jeans, short black boots, and a leather jacket that was thrown over a dark t-shirt. Was that what she considered appropriate sleepwear? Had the Avengers ever heard of pajamas?

He heard footsteps on the winding staircase behind him. Peter had been down the steps a million times, on the way down to Mr. Stark’s workshop. He was staring at the ground, but he could tell it was multiple people: he could detect the _tap-tap_ of sharp stilettos and the quiet mechanic _whrr_ of Colonel Rhodes’ exoskeleton suit, plus other nondescript steps.

When Peter finally looked up, he knew he was in deep shit. Deep, deeeep shit.

The names of the people standing menacingly in front of him were some of the most recognizable in the country. Captain America. War Machine. Falcon. Scarlet Witch. The Winter Soldier. Plus, of course, Hawkeye and Black Widow. Even worse, Pepper stood at the side, her face carefully blank.

Peter had plastic action figurines of most of them sitting on his desk. He felt like he shouldn’t share that fact.

They didn’t look happy to see him. Captain America’s arms were crossed and his brow furrowed, a far cry from the hummus-loving hero Peter had met. A faint red aura hovered around the Scarlet Witch’s hands, and she took a step forward. The Winter Soldier’s fingers twitched, as if he was imagining ripping out Peter’s larynx. 

“Fuck me,” Peter said softly. 

“You’re way too young,” Clint said.

Just like that, the image of the stoic group collapsed as everyone turned to look at Clint. “Don’t be gross, man,” Rhodey said.

“He can’t help himself,” Falcon said. Peter wracked his brain before remembering his name was Sam. He made a conscious effort to refer to them by their real names, as if that would make them less scary. “It’s in his DNA to be a fucking weirdo.”

“Language,” Steve said. Somewhere in the background, Peter heard an eagle screech.

“What are you doing here?” Wanda took another step forward, the red tendrils creeping up her arms. The rest of the Avengers turned to him, as if they had forgotten he was standing there.

Peter’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t get the words out. His plan now seemed like the dumbest idea he’d ever concocted.

“Tony wants to talk to you,” Pepper said quietly.

If it was possible, Peter’s heart would have dropped through his chest, through all 93 floors of Stark Tower, down to Park Avenue, through the asphalt, and down to the earth’s molten core, where it would finally combust in a fiery blaze, and then Peter wouldn’t have to feel anything any more.

“He’s down there,” Pepper said, gesturing to the staircase to the workshop. 

Peter slid off the stool, feeling the eyes of the Avengers on him. When had this turned into his life? At what point did he stop being the Peter that had an unhealthy obsession with Lego, and turn into the failed superhero that everyone hated?

Feeling like he was going to the gallows, he turned and walked down the stairs.

* * *

Peter had always liked the workshop.

Most of the Stark Tower floors were eerily similar to an Apple store: gleaming white surfaces, bright lighting, and well-oiled machinery. The floors were staffed by employees that had either been aggressively head-hunted or plucked straight from college.

The workshop was a different story. It was essentially one massive health code violation. Just the other day, Peter had tripped over a large mechanical coil and had scraped his hand on a nearby drill, and he was glad he was up-to-date on his vaccinations.  

The floor-to-ceiling windows were tinted dark, and along one wall, various iterations of the Iron Man suit stood gleaming like sentinels. There was one glaringly empty spot.

The workshop didn’t feel right. Peter felt as if he’d stepped into a movie with no sound, or a book with no words. There was something off-kilter, something inherently incorrect.

It clicked: there was no music.

Every time Peter had been to the workshop, some sort of hard rock band had been playing: Metallica, ACDC, Black Sabbath. Sometimes, just for kicks, Tony would play Aqua. Mankind cannot resist the jam of Barbie Girl.

But now, the only sound was the dull humming and clicking of various machines.

Something caught Peter’s eye.

Tony was lying across a faded leather couch next to a mini-fridge. Peter knew exactly what was in the fridge: scotch (for Mr. Stark), orange Crush (for Peter), and empty cans of both drinks, because Peter and Tony were too lazy to find a garbage can.

Tony’s hand was grasped around a glass and swished around the dark liquid. Definitely not orange Crush, then.

He knew he had to get it over with. Swallowing, he took off his mask, and walked over to the couch.

Tony was once again wearing sunglasses, despite the darkness of the room. He was barefoot, and he reeked of alcohol.

He didn’t move.

Several ideas floated through Peter’s mind. Perhaps he was asleep. Or maybe even dead. It would be just his luck, to have Tony Stark die and him be the last person to see him, because then everybody would blame him and he would spend the rest of his life in jail and there was no way he could Shawshank his way out-

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Tony said, pronouncing each word incredibly slowly.

Peter twitched, falling out of his vision of creating a shank from a toothbrush. “What?”

Slowly, moving an inch at a time, Tony sat up. His jeans rustled against the leather of the couch. When he was vertical, he took a sip of his drink. “Who invented the programming language Python?”

It was not the question he was expecting. He blinked once, twice. “I don’t know.”

Tony took another sip of his drink. “I did.”

More silence. A beat passed, and then another. It was as if the entire swirling galaxy, the entire whirling cosmos, had collapsed in on itself and now existed only as that room.

“I just think it’s funny,” Tony said, “That someone would try to hack into Stark Tower using a Python script, using variables that _I_ invented.”

Oh no.

A heavy weight bloomed at the bottom of Peter’s stomach.

“Because whoever wrote that script – and I’m guessing it’s your friend Ed, Ben, Ned, whatever – was good. I won’t lie.” Tony slipped the sunglasses to the top of his head. “But you know what, Peter? This is my game, my rules. You can’t beat me.”

This was a living nightmare.

Tony continued with slightly slurred words. “A high school kid can’t hack Karen without me figuring it out. And once I got the alert, I watched him write the program. I watched as he tried to evade the Tower’s security. I _let_ you get in. So here’s a second question for you, Pete. What’s up?” His hands went wide in a broad gesture.

The words were caught in the back of his throat, cutting him, choking him, making his throat bleed with unsaid thoughts.

Tony stood up and walked slowly towards him. “Because then I think, Peter is a good kid. Why would he break in? Unless he wanted something. You have access to my workshop. You have access to the suits. You had access to the one that attacked the city.”

No, no, no, it was all wrong-

And then, Tony stopped. He stood only a foot away, and the smell of scotch was almost unbearable.

“But then I think to myself, there’s no way.” His shoulders slumped, and he seemed to deflate onto himself.

A breath escaped from Peter.

“Maybe that’s Pepper’s influence on me.” He pointed at Peter. “Kid, I see a hell of a lot of me in you, and I’m going to give you a fair shot. I want you to explain why you were breaking in. You have thirty seconds. Go.”

Peter’s eyes bugged out. “I-I mean, I just, I didn’t think, I was just going to, I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t, I, I-”

“That was ten seconds right there.”

“But I can’t, I mean, I-”

“Kid, hurry up.”

“I was trying to help! Because I care!”

Tony took the smallest step back. He eyed Peter carefully. “Elaborate.”

With an outstretched hand, Peter gestured to the room. “I care about all of this! I would never, ever, do anything to sacrifice that. I care about Dum-E and U and all the other robots. I care about doing my work. I care about the weird painting over your table that probably cost like a million dollars but looks like a kindergartner could do it.”

“Are you insulting my taste in art?” Tony asked, right when Peter added, “I care about you, too.”

Some things can’t be taken back.

“You don’t care about me,” Tony said slowly, his eyes carefully blank.  The words were unsaid, but they were there, floating gently out of sight. _No one does._

But Peter shook his head. “Don’t give me that, Mr. Stark. Of course I do. And Pepper and Colonel Rhodes too, obviously. And Happy. And even Captain America, I bet. All I’m trying to say is that I was trying to do something. Anything! Because you’re not answering the calls, and the Avengers are banned, and I was hoping I could find something in your workshop. Something to help me figure out where you were, so I could talk to you. Ask how I could help.”

Very carefully, Tony put his drink down precariously on a piece of machinery that was absolutely not meant to be a table. He clasped Peter on the shoulder. “Kid, I think we’ve both messed up.”

A small, desperate laugh escaped from Peter.

Tony opened his mouth to continue, but FRIDAY cut him off. “Boss, there’s a delivery on the main floor from Shawarma Palace.”

“What?” Tony said, looking upwards, as if that would make FRIDAY’s words make any more sense. “What time is it? Who the hell ordered it?”

“It’s 2:35a.m., boss. It is unknown who ordered it.”

“Probably Clint,” Tony said, rubbing his eyes. He leaned against the closest wall, and looked as if he could fall asleep right there. “That man is going to destroy my fortune by eating me out of my own house.”

“I did interrupt his cheese snack,” Peter admitted.

Tony looked back towards the couch, where there were two empty bags of Goldfish crackers. “I should probably eat. I ate those either an hour ago or two days ago, I can’t remember.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Let’s continue this conversation upstairs, with the others.”

Something niggled at the back of Peter’s brain. With a sudden flash, he realized what it was. “Uh, Mr. Stark,” he said. “I know this really isn’t the right time to ask for a favor, but… can I bring Ned over to eat the shawarma with us? I mean, I figure that one of the Avengers will probably kill me tonight, so at least this way he can meet them before my inevitable death."

Tony raised an eyebrow.

“And I mean, we don’t know how much shawarma there is, but like, we don’t want it to go to waste, and I didn’t see Thor there – where is he by the way? Space? – so if we bring Ned then it’s less likely that you’ll have to throw out any food. Yeah,” he added, to fill the empty silence.

For a split second, Peter thought he’d gone too far. But then Tony shrugged and said, “Sure, but we’re starting without him,” and started up the spiral staircase.

He fought the urge to fist-pump the air. Despite the plan going totally, completely, 100% of the rails, - and despite the general awfulness of the world - at least he and Ned would be eating a late-night snack with the Avengers. Nothing was cooler than that.

* * *

Rachel Toussaint really loved her caramel macchiatos with two extra shots of vanilla.

The love ran strong and it ran deep. Those drinks had been there for her in her darkest moments, from all-night study sessions in college to powering through late-night shifts on the Stark Tower security desk. Her friends were baffled that she could function after pulling so many all-nighters, and so she said that she was the Haitian Sensation, and that the talent was in her blood.

Sure, it was her blood. And a lot of fucking coffee.

Besides murder, she would do anything for a caramel macchiato. Actually, maybe even murder, depending on who it was.

She interacted with hundreds of people a day. Most of the conversations were transactional – asking for someone’s ID, or giving directions, or telling tourists that no, they could not meet Mr. Stark today, but would they like to see the Stark Museum of Technology?

Then she met Peter Parker.

She had helped him with his ID a few times. He stuck out to her, mainly because he was the only regular visitor to Mr. Stark, but also because his floppy hair reminded her of her golden retriever, Nugget.

One day, as she was getting his pass for him, he looked down at the coffee cup on her desk. “You drink Starbucks?” he asked.

“Yes?” she said, although it came out as a question. She placed his ID on the counter and slid it over.

He gave a half-smiled and leaned against the counter. “What’s your favorite drink?”

Rachel recited her usual order to him, and the half-smile turned into a full one. He picked up the ID and pulled it over his hoodie. “Thanks. Just wait until next Tuesday.”

So she waited. By the time next Tuesday had come around, she’d almost forgotten about what Peter until the boy himself had shown up in line. He was holding a generic white coffee cup with an unfamiliar logo on the side.

“Try this,” he said as an introduction, placing the cup on the counter.

There was a small part of Rachel that worried she was about to be drugged – they covered everything during security training at Stark Industries – but she had colleagues chatting with visitors on either side of her, and she figured she was safe enough. She took a sip of the drink.

And her mind exploded.

The caramel hints melded perfectly with the vanilla undertones, and the sweetness was perfectly balanced with the darker melody of roasted beans. It warmed her whole body as she swallowed it. Never in her whole life had she tried a coffee that good.

“Starbucks is fine, but there are a lot of great independent places nearby,” Peter said. “My friend MJ swears by this place,” he said, gesturing at the cup.

And thus, a tradition was born. Every Tuesday, Peter would bring her a caramel macchiato. And in return, Rachel would slide him one of her recent baking experiments.

Weeks passed, and Peter never once missed getting her a coffee.

Earlier that afternoon, she hated lying to Peter about Stark not being in the Tower, but Pepper Potts had specifically requested it. Even worse, she could see that the news of Stark's absence excited Peter. Anticipation ran through his shoulders like an electric wire.

She knew he would be back, and in spandex.

It was not rocket science to figure out Peter’s “secret” identity. Who else would Stark take such an avid interest in? She’d even once seen his web shooters beneath his sleeves. She’d torn away her gaze, feeling like she was looking at something forbidden, like someone's underwear.

Today her shift was from 3pm until 11pm, but when her replacement arrived, she waved him off, saying she wanted the overtime. Something was going to happen that night, she just knew it. She made sure the other night security guards were stationed away from the screens showing the security cameras.

Rachel knew that all of Stark Tower’s secrets weren’t hers to know. She’d worked there for four years to finance her way through school, and she hadn’t once seen Stark – so clearly he could get in and out of the building without going through the main entrance. (Not counting, you know, his ability to fly up to his penthouse.) She suspected that when the Avengers used to come here, they’d used similar sneaky means to enter the building.

And then, tonight, Clint Barton walked straight through the revolving doors, flashed her a peace sign, pressed a card to the turnstile, and stepped into the elevator.

Rachel’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull. An Avenger! Here! Less than twenty feet from her! She tried not to fangirl. She worked for an Avenger, after all. But there was a difference between the Tony Stark she would see on TV, and the flesh-and-blood Hawkeye that strolled through the lobby.

“Holy shit,” she breathed.

She struggled to calm her beating heart for the next hour. There was no way Hawkeye was alone with Tony Stark. The Avengers were like spiders: for every one you saw, there were another five nearby that you couldn’t see.

Her mind started to turn.

The Avengers hated each other – or at least they did, according to People and Us Weekly and whatever other celebrity magazines were for sale at the grocery store. And if they were meeting in the middle of the night, then it was certainly a stressful situation.

Plus, you know, she had seen Peter Parker break into the building. He must have thought the security cameras were blocked. Rachel made a mental note to contact Project Whiteout to erase the tapes.

At one point, she even went to the stairwell and threw open the door, ready to yell at Peter to stop. She decided not to – sometimes, you had to let people make their own mistakes. If Peter was getting this far, then Mr. Stark was letting him get this far.

And then, through the security camera, she watched him ride up to the penthouse in an elevator.

Unbelievable. An elevator. In bright red spandex.

There was no way things were going well; Peter was the spark in a tinderbox of hot emotions. Rachel felt her chest constrict with sympathy for him. He had brought her coffees for weeks; was there something nice she could do for him?

She racked her brains for a solution. Could she pull a fire alarm? No, FRIDAY would let Mr. Stark know it was her. What if she called Peter and told him to abandon his stupid idea? No, he probably didn’t have his phone on him.

Then, with a burst of clarity, she realized she was going about it the wrong way.

“Gotta lean in,” she said to herself, remembering the old days when the Avengers used to hang out at the Tower. She’d had delivery guys come to the front desk often enough.

She slipped her phone and wallet out from her pocket. She quickly Googled a number and was relieved to see that they were open all night. It might cost her a day’s salary, but if it managed to defuse a situation, then it was worth it.

Temporarily locking the revolving doors behind her, she slipped onto the empty sidewalk outside. She didn’t want FRIDAY to hear this conversation as she dialed the number.

The phone rang three times before someone picked up. “Shawarma Palace, Aliya speaking, how can I help you?”

 _I am the Haitian Sensation_ , Rachel said to herself, before saying, “Hi, can I get an order to Stark Tower?”

After all – if shawarma couldn’t fix a situation for Peter Parker, nothing could.


End file.
